


In Flanders Fields

by Dhillarearen



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: AFTG Reverse Big Bang, Alternate Universe, Angst, Doctor!Neil, Historical AU, M/M, Trans Character, Trans Female Renee Walker, Trans Male Neil Josten, Unreliable Narrator, WWI AU, War Poet!Andrew, War is hell, background Kevin/Jean, sO many multilingual characters, twinyards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 70,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23100721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dhillarearen/pseuds/Dhillarearen
Summary: They said the war would be over by Christmas, but two years later Andrew is still in the trenches. Disillusioned and weary, he meets civilian doctor Neil Josten—a man with even more secrets than Andrew himself.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 258
Kudos: 333
Collections: AFTG Reverse Big Bang 2020





	1. Dekko

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer.** This is an Allied-centric view of WWI, because it is in Andrew’s point of view and I’ve cast him as an Allied soldier. The first world war was a knotted, complicated mess. Do not take this as unbiased.
> 
> This is also a work of fiction, and I am not a professional WWI historian. There are many things I will have gotten wrong. There are many, many things have I left out.
> 
>  **Warnings.** Including but not limited to: Violence, blood, gore, death. Medical descriptions and procedures. Alcohol. Unsanitary conditions. Suicidal ideation. Nationalism. Homophobia, antisemitism, racism, sexism, ableism, and transphobia, but less than one might expect: the focus is mostly on how buckwild terrible trench warfare was. Mentions of addiction, self-harm, CSA, child abuse, domestic abuse.
> 
>  **Thanks.** My artist was [requiemofkings](http://requiemofkings.tumblr.com). My betas were bronwyn and Josh. Danke schön!

**Part I: August-September 1916  
**

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,  
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,  
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,  
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.  
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,  
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;  
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots  
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling  
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,  
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling  
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—  
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,  
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,  
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace  
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,  
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,  
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;  
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood  
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,  
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud  
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—  
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest  
To children ardent for some desperate glory,  
The old Lie: _Dulce et decorum est  
__Pro patria mori._

  
—"Dulce et Decorum Est,” Wilfred Owen  
  


(Latin phrase is from the Roman poet Horace: “It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.”)

* * *

**dekko /ˈdɛk oʊ / _n._** a look; glance; esp. in the phrase “take a dekko (at).” Derived from the Hindi word dekho (“look”).

* * *

  
It was raining when they climbed out of the tunnel.  
  
It was always raining in France. Jean spoke of sunny afternoons with his mother, halcyon seaside days, but all Andrew had seen was rain, and mud, and mud, and rain. The last time he’d been dry had been a dream. It was so wet the bullets rusted before he could shoot them.  
  
“Clear,” Renee whispered, plastering herself to the wall to get out of his way. Andrew grunted in acknowledgement and helped Aaron heave Nicky out of the ground, slung between them. Kevin in front stopped suddenly. Jean almost ran into them from behind, and Andrew shot him a glare that, in the dark, the other man wouldn’t see. From the annoyed hiss of Jean’s breath he’d gotten the gist anyway.  
  
“Couldn’t have waited for good weather?” Nicky joked weakly. Andrew jostled him harder than necessary, and Nicky let out a yelp of pain that was hushed from four directions at once. The rain was more fog than drops, which was a mercy, or would have been if it didn’t creep, humid, under Andrew’s collar where it scraped the back of his neck. The summer was ending.  
  
God that he did not believe in, Andrew wanted to be dry.  
  
Renee waved her hand in Andrew’s periphery to let him know she had come up behind him. She was so used to being silent she sometimes forgot that other people expected footfalls to make a noise. “It’s just up ahead,” she said, pointing into the gloom.

Andrew squinted. He could barely make out shadowed lumps that might be a village. Kevin, with his sharp eyes, would be able to see more. Maybe. The fog made it difficult.  
  
“I hope they have a hot spring,” Nicky said.  
  
“Shut up,” Kevin said in an undertone. His ears were pricked so obviously that Andrew could almost see them flicking at the sides of his head. Like a fox sniffing out the foxhound.  
  
“Day,” said Andrew. Kevin nodded and stepped cautiously further into the tall grass. He stalked back and forth, nearly as silent as Renee, ducking his head and shading his face to check the perimeter. Andrew allowed Kevin the extra time. Two weeks ago Kevin had finally caved and switched his beloved Ross for the hardier SMLE rifle currently slung across his back. His constant complaining about how difficult it was to load and fire let Andrew know that Kevin had not yet regained his confidence. He’d get there, if he didn’t get shot first. Kevin was the best sniper their spot of the front line (and, Andrew guessed in his more charitable moments, the entire Allied front) had.  
  
“Standing here like sitting ducks does nothing,” Jean pointed out.  
  
“Clear,” Kevin said. Andrew motioned the rest of them forward. After three steps Andrew turned his head to look back, checking for Renee. She had melted again into the darkness.  
  
Good. Being undetected was what kept her alive.  
  
He heard Jean loosen his pistol in its holster behind him, the metal scrape loud in the still night. Even layers of cloth couldn’t completely muffle sixty pounds of equipment. In front, hunched as if it would help hide his lanky frame, Kevin had a hand on his knife. Andrew wished he could do the same, but it would mean dropping Nicky, and that was impermissible.  
  
They reached the outskirt of the town without incident, each breath baited, each step an agony of anticipation for a sudden bullet that never came.

When they were near enough to make out the shapes of fence posts against the encompassing fog, Andrew held up a hand to stop them again. This they had discussed before, and Kevin left to go knock on the first door at Andrew’s sharp nod. Of the rest of them only Jean knew French, and though Jean’s was much better, Kevin looked paler in the light. Besides, Kevin had a gift for charming people. Pity he didn’t use it on his fellow soldiers.  
  
Andrew’s heel had caught a mud-filled hole and was sinking. He shifted to the other foot to keep from being sucked down. Aaron stumbled, trying to keep Nicky steady between them.  
  
_“Careful!”_  
  
Behind Nicky’s back, Aaron’s arm tensed under Andrew’s. Andrew tried as best he could to communicate his utter disregard for Aaron’s comfort with his own elbow. Aaron swore softly, but it was unclear whether it was at Andrew, or their situation in general.  
  
Their mission was, on paper, a scouting one. Renee and her team of tunnellers had managed, slowly and painstakingly silent, to mine a route underground from the reserve trench to the nearest village: a tiny ramshackle thing that was on Jean’s division’s maps but none of the rest. It would have remained overlooked if it weren’t for the doctor that lived there. He had an uncanny ability to find men even the burial detail had not been able to. The brass were suspicious, but the Allied soldiers who had been through the doctor’s care were strangely unforthcoming. So Sergeant-Major Wymack’s ragtag crew had been earmarked to winnow out how one civilian man could find what squads of trained soldiers could not.  
  
Wymack’s men had a reputation for unsentimentality. The Sergeant-Major shared it.  
  
“If you come back not dead, you can count yourself lucky,” he’d told them, before they’d climbed into an even deeper hole in the ground than the one they had left. “That’s your job today. Come back not dead. Don’t get ambitious.” He’d flicked his eyes to Andrew as he’d said that, and Andrew had stared back stone-faced. Wymack knew what he was doing, sending him and Aaron out. He knew because he knew his men.  
  
(The highfalutin brasshats of the military back in England might have been more inclined to recognize the battlefield promotion of a Filipino if Wymack had been in a Kiwi regiment. As it was Wymack was acting 1st Lieutenant two stations above the patches on his shoulder. It didn’t change the way the men acted, much. Wymack was a better officer than any they’d had before.)  
  
Ostensibly, Nicky and Andrew and Aaron had been selected because they spoke German, and if the town happened to have been taken over before Allied intelligence had found out about it, it might be the language they needed to barter in. But the reality that had happened was this: Nicky had gotten out of bed one morning for the dawn stand-to, and all the toes on his left foot had crumbled clean away.  
  
For all his bemoaning through the days and days of marching, he’d never let them know about that particular curse. Nicky had spent two days in the aid center, but when the ambulance transport had come there just _wasn’t enough room_ for a half-Mexican who openly leered at other men. Nicky had been told to bandage his nub and report back to duty. Andrew had gone to Wymack that night and told him if he didn’t let him take Nicky on the reconnaissance mission for the barest hope of finding a doctor, he would mutiny and take Nicky anyway. Wymack had acquiesced to give orders on the condition that Andrew took his twin with him.  
  
“So if you lose one you’ve got the spare to make up,” one of the other men had joked, hearing the orders. Andrew had considered punching him, but it wasn’t worth it. It was a jape he’d heard so many times already, and it was one he’d hear again, and again. Until he died, and Aaron was the only one left. And then Andrew wouldn’t have to hear the laughter.  
  
Kevin returned through the rain with the collar of his tunic turned up over his neck, huddled against the damp. Andrew wasn’t sure why he bothered. He would be wet through whether he tried not to be, or didn’t. “Woman in the house. Still French. She said there’s a ‘Doctor Josten’ two streets down. Said we can’t miss him. Apparently, he’s Jewish.”  
  
It was impossible to see where they were going. Houses swelled to existence before them, and disappeared as soon as they were passed, stepping aside for the next run-down hovel in the scraggly line. Most looked abandoned. Some had been bombed by misaimed, or misfired, shells falling. There was the corpse of a child slumped in one houseless door: a little patterned dress, a skinned knee, both shoes still on. Beside her was a single, skeletal arm, swarming with flies.  
  
They went on.  
  
The house was, fortunately, easier to find than Andrew had feared. A lonely bulb, hooded to keep it from the rain, illuminated a cone of light outside a shack in slightly less disrepair than the others. The wooden steps were still intact, at least. In front of them, lit from above like a spotlight, a man was washing his hands in an enormous tub of water. No: it was a horse trough, stood up on bricks and positioned under a manual water pump. The man looked up as they approached, cataloguing them but not stopping them. He was slight, barely taller than Andrew, he saw as they got close, and thin enough for the breeze to knock over. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. Bubbling, twisted skin stretched from his hands up his forearms. Andrew recognized the marks of mustard gas. The blisters looked old. Whoever this man was, he had been at the front for a long time. Both the water and the cuffs of his sleeves were stained pink.  
  
Kevin extended a hand and smiled. “Hello. We’re looking for the doctor in this town?”  
  
The man didn’t pause in his scrubbing. Kevin wilted as his hand went unshaken, and eventually dropped it to his side. The way the light was positioned made it so the man’s flat cap shaded his eyes, but Andrew knew he was watching them. A patchy beard covered his chin. High cheekbones aside, he looked like an upright goat. If goats could do the dishes.  
  
“An Irishman, a Frenchman, and three from Jolly England walk into a bar. What’s the punchline?” he said. His voice was flat; low; ever so slightly mocking. And, shockingly, English. Andrew bristled. All of his senses were saying, _danger_.  
  
Kevin frowned. “Sorry?”

“You know your uniforms,” Jean said. He sounded impressed.  
  
“Not hard to when you see them every day for months on months,” the man said. He at last drew his hands out of the water and wiped them on a rag he took from the side of the trough.  
  
Andrew had a good idea of the shape of it, by now. He flicked his fingers for Kevin to subside and nudged Nicky forward.  
  
The man inclined his head towards Andrew’s stripes. “Corporal.”  
  
“Doctor Josten,” Andrew said.  
  
Nicky and Kevin made noises of surprise. Doctor Josten tipped his head back to look down his nose at Andrew and for the first time the light caught his eyes. It was too dark to see the color, but they were pale, heavily lashed. The light shining into them made the pupils into pinpricks.  
  
“Perceptive,” he said. “Usually it takes people longer.”  
  
Andrew pointed at the tray of pointy metal instruments resting on the corner of the trough. “Either you were the doctor, or a very dramatic scissors-grinder.”  
  
“You don’t look like Jew,” Aaron protested, hoisting Nicky up to reposition his grip.  
  
Doctor Josten gave him a look of dislike. “And I _thought_ you didn’t look like a gaping arsehole, but it seems we were both wrong, weren’t we. You have payment?” he continued, over Aaron’s offended spluttering.  
  
“No,” said Kevin, alarmed. He patted at his pockets. “I mean, yes—we can—”  
  
“Never mind. It never hurts to ask.” The doctor gave them another appraising look, lingering on Nicky. “Strip, and wash, and then bring him around the back. The front’s for urgent surgery only.”  
  
Andrew couldn’t remain silent. “What?”  
  
The pale eyes swung back to Andrew. Unsettling, they were. The back of Andrew’s neck crawled. “Strip and wash. I’ll bring clothes for you on the other side. You are covered in mud and blood and lice, and I’ll not have you near the sick.”  
  
Andrew became aware that he was scratching his belly and immediately stopped. The clipped British accent made Josten’s words sound haughtier. Andrew decided that, no matter how good of a doctor this fucker was, or how much he helped Nicky, he would never trust him.  
  
“In the rain?” Aaron asked, incredulous.  
  
“Did I misspeak?” Doctor Josten examined the bloody water in the trough dispassionately and then heaved it over, slopping the mess onto the already muddy ground. A wave of it went over Andrew’s boots. He and Aaron lifted at the same time to keep Nicky out of it. Backsplash sprayed across them, cold from being piped under the earth, as Josten started pumping the handle of the well.  
  
Months of living packed in trenches with other men had brutally, but efficiently, robbed Andrew of the body-shyness he’d once possessed. He and Aaron maneuvered Nicky to the front steps, propping him there, (Nicky complained about the splinters, but Andrew could see how badly he was sweating and knew that wasn’t the pain that concerned him), and then Andrew turned his back and started unstrapping the webbing that held his kit. He could hear the jangle and wool rasp of the others following suit. While he and Aaron were positioning Nicky, Doctor Josten had finished filling the trough and had disappeared around the corner of his house. Andrew supposed he was grateful to be spared those strange eyes watching him.  
  
Mud poured out of the wraps on his legs as he unwound them, sending up a stink distilled from the one Andrew lived in every day, every night. He was standing in a puddle now, no duckboards here in this woebegone village to keep his feet out of the muck. Not that they had ever been any good at that.  
  
They ended up having to cut Nicky’s pants off him. They were half-rotten anyway, wool being the wrong fabric for muddy holes in the ground, but Nicky still protested. “I can’t fight a war with no pants on!”  
  
“You can’t fight a war with your feet falling off either,” Aaron said, grunting as he dragged clinging wet wool down Nicky’s legs. The rain had picked up, and Aaron kept snapping his head to flick his hair out of his eyes without a hat to keep it back. The tickle of the dripping from Andrew’s shoulders to his fingertips was unbearable. Kevin crouched behind Aaron to help pull, and finally, with only one loud shout from Nicky that he immediately muffled, they managed to get him naked. Kevin tried to lift him, but Andrew slapped his hands away and he and Aaron resumed position as pallbearers.  
  
Or not, was the idea. But Andrew wasn’t fooled. None of them here were alive. Not anymore. They were all corpses, waiting to lie down.  
  
The shambling, skidding walk around back of the house didn’t bear thinking of, so Andrew didn’t, sending his mind away and only keeping enough attention to keep from dropping Nicky in the mud. There was a lopsided porch on the backside, tilting like a shipwreck. They climbed up onto it for the scanty protection against the skies and stood there shivering. Kevin knocked again. A few seconds later the door opened, and Doctor Josten’s head poked out.  
  
“Well come in,” he said, impatient. It wasn’t worth the effort to snap at him, so Andrew settled for sharing a look with Kevin and hefted Nicky over the tilted doorjamb. Once they were inside, dripping on the floorboards, conditions were noticeably kinder. Being outside for months on end could truly make a man appreciate what shelter four good walls provided.  
  
“Here,” Doctor Josten said, bustling over. He had his arms full of white towels. “Not the cleanest, I wouldn’t give these to patients, but they’ll do for you. There’s nothing infectious on them.” He shoved the bundle at Andrew, who was closest, and disappeared into a side door. They heard him opening and closing drawers.  
  
“Give it,” Nicky said, making a grabby motion. Andrew rolled his eyes and passed out the towels, realizing too late he’d ended up with only a small hand towel for himself. Oh, well. He dried as best he could and dropped it on the floor. Leave the doctor to clean it up. Wymack would be horrified, but Wymack wasn’t here.  
  
Doctor Josten reappeared with another armful of cloth, this one multi-colored. He again shoved it at Andrew. “Not sure anything in there will fit that Frenchman, but put these on.”  
  
“Some of these are women’s clothes!” Aaron said, drawing out a floral skirt with his thumb and forefinger. He dropped it as if it burned.  
  
“Feel free to go naked,” Josten snapped. Aaron’s cheeks flushed in anger, but the doctor was already moving on. He was, Andrew noted, remaining just out of punching distance.  
  
They had to put Nicky down again to dress him. Surprisingly, Josten moved forward to help take his weight. Andrew let him, with much reluctance. The man was a doctor, after all, and that was what Nicky was here for.  
  
None of the clothes fit anyone. Andrew’s pants were a soldier’s get, British from the look of them, but far too long, and none of the shirts fit across his shoulders. Kevin couldn’t button his pants at all, and Nicky’s undershirt had a faded brown stain they all decided not to think about. Aaron’s hands were swallowed in elephantine sleeves. A tear in one allowed his thumb to poke through, which he did with an expression of extreme disparagement.  
  
Jean and Andrew split the two skirts. Jean took the blue calico that might have suited him if it hadn’t been too short and exposed a scandalous amount of leg. It left Andrew with the hideous orange stripes. Poking his head through the waist—Andrew wasn’t going to be bare-chested around whatever bodily fluids sick men coughed up—Andrew determinedly did not meet Aaron’s eye. He could _feel_ Aaron snickering at him.  
  
The mismatch aside, Andrew had forgotten what a simple comfort it was, being clean and being in clothes that were also clean, and dry. For a moment he felt dizzy with it, and wondered if he had indeed died in the mud, and this was the afterlife. The best part was when Josten handed them each—save Nicky—a pair of socks. Kevin got a look on his face like he might kiss the man, and Andrew would not have blamed him.  
  
Some of the socks looked like they might be women’s woolen stockings, but this time nobody complained. Andrew wiggled his toes, marveling at the concept of dry feet. He was afraid to move in case he woke up.  
  
“Come here,” Doctor Josten said. He didn’t bother to soften his tone when talking to Nicky. Together he and the twins hobbled Nicky down the hall, past a doubtful staircase, more doors, and a parlor packed to the brim with hospital cots, every one full. Most of the men were asleep. The one was awake only watched them, unblinking. Andrew stared back and nearly missed a step.  
  
Doctor Josten finally stopped in front of a curtain drawn over a doorway. He scraped it back to reveal a miniscule cubby, two cots impossibly crammed in inside, barely an inch of space between them. One of the cots was already occupied. The man’s chest rose and fell under the blanket with the deep breaths of slumber.  
  
“Here,” Josten said, trying to guide Nicky in. Nicky tensed, and Andrew realized why an instant before the rest of them. Nicky had spotted the spiked helmet resting underneath the other cot.  
  
“You’ve got Germans in here?”  
  
“I’ve got soldiers in here,” Doctor Josten said. His chin was set. “And a few townspeople. I take who needs it, and I don’t ask questions. Otherwise I don’t think you’d have had such a friendly welcome, do you?”  
  
“That was friendly?” Jean muttered. Everyone ignored him.  
  
“Like Clara Barton,” Aaron said.  
  
“Who?”  
  
“You can’t put me in with a Kraut,” Nicky said, his voice climbing in pitch. “He’ll kill me!” He gestured between the sleeping man and himself, and nearly toppled, stopped only by Andrew and Aaron grabbing his waist. The weight coming down on his bad foot—what was left of it—made tears spring to his eyes.  
  
“I’m sure your commanding officers will be glad to hear you’ve made a full recovery, then,” Doctor Josten said, with a significant glance at Nicky’s feet.  
  
Andrew didn’t like the idea of his cousin bedding down next to the enemy, but this was the only chance Nicky had for any sort of care. He pointedly slid his knife out from under his borrowed waistband. Nicky knew he’d use it; Andrew didn’t have to make the threat verbally. Interestingly, Doctor Josten flinched. What manner of doctor was afraid of knives? There was something wrong here, more than some mild insubordination.  
  
“. . .fine,” Nicky said. He let himself be settled on the cot, but he scooted as far away from the German soldier as he could, which wasn’t very. There wasn’t enough room for them all to crowd around to help, so Andrew muscled past them and took over the question of where Nicky’s limbs should fit. Josten leaned back to let him work and reached towards the ceiling. One sharp tug later, and a light bulb went on, making Andrew squint at the sudden brightness. Nicky yelped.  
  
“Won’t the light wake him up?” he hissed, side-eyeing the German soldier. Kevin made a noise like he agreed.

“Not him.” Dr. Josten was stretching Nicky’s legs out before him on the bed. He worked quickly but not, Andrew noted—he was watching closely—ungently. “Chlorine. He can’t see a hand in front of his face.”  
  
Automatically Andrew’s eyes were drawn to the sleeping man. As if he knew he were being scrutinized, he sighed in his sleep and shifted his head. There was a bandage wrapped around his eyes and tied by his temple. He was blond, and he looked very young, sleeping like that. He had the kind of mouth that Andrew might once upon a time have found pleasing. But Andrew had lost that sort of desire to the mud and the shells.  
  
It made things easier, in a way.  
  
He was glad Kevin had found Jean. The thing between himself and Kevin could not have lasted, and it was better that Andrew had stopped wanting it before it became a complication.  
  
It had been awful, the first time it had happened, Andrew realizing all at once that he did not want to be here, did not want _this._ Kevin had withdrawn his hands immediately when he’d noticed, which is why he remained unstabbed—at least by Andrew—but for a few seconds it had been like—  
  
That did not bear thinking of, either. Andrew turned back to Nicky.  
  
Doctor Josten had finished arranging Nicky. He was washing his hands again with a pitcher and bowl standing on a tiny cabinet in the scant space at the foot of Nicky’s bed. As his eyes adjusted to the light, Andrew got his first proper look at the man he had entrusted his cousin to. The patchy beard was truly terrible, like scrubbing wire. It had a reddish tint to it, as did the man’s curly hair. Three silvered cuts divided the stubble on his right cheek, and a burn the size of a thruppenny bit rested high on his left. The beard and the scars could not hide the fine bones of the doctor’s face. His eyes, Andrew saw, were blue.  
  
Nicky had noticed, because of course he had. Even like this. “I don’t think I gave you my name,” he said, and his voice was deeper suddenly. He held out a hand. “Nicholas Hemmick, Private First Class. Pleased to meet you.”  
  
Josten ignored Nicky’s hand as he had Kevin’s earlier. For some reason Andrew found himself viciously glad as he watched Nicky pout at being shot down. The doctor squatted by Nicky’s feet. It turned Andrew’s stomach, being that close to the rot, but Josten was unfazed, and examined them with light touches and sharp eyes. Nicky bit his lip. When a toe on his right foot snapped off he couldn’t hold back a sob.  
  
“Sorry,” he said, when Josten’s head shot up.  
  
“No matter,” the doctor said. He leaned and opened up the cabinet, drawing out a bottle of wine that seemed too big to fit in the little thing. Gesturing to his footy hands, he indicated Nicky should pop the cork and take a swig. Nicky did. His eyes went wide.  
  
“Where did you get wine this good out _here_?”  
  
“From a church cellar,” Josten said absently. He was examining Nicky’s feet again. “The priest fled as soon as the first British shells landed on us. He’ll never miss it. I like to save the morphine for when it’s really needed. It’s precious hard to come by.”  
  
“You mean German shells,” Andrew said.  
  
Doctor Josten paused. “No, I’m quite sure they were British. I was here.”  
  
Kevin had focused on a different aspect. “You can’t go stealing church wine just because you don’t—”  
  
Jean reached over and tugged the front of Kevin’s borrowed shirt up so it covered his mouth. “Sorry,” he said to the doctor. “I promise he’s not always that Catholic.”  
  
“Hey!”  
  
“ _Shh_ ,” Nicky hissed, eyeing the sleeping German warily.  
  
The examination did not take long, even with Aaron’s relentless muttering. His twin had been almost a doctor himself before the war, so Andrew kept an ear open for any real complaints, but mostly Aaron seemed to be upset at Doctor Josten’s manner. Soon Josten was kneeling back on his heels, face smooth as he met Nicky’s eyes. Bad news. Andrew could feel it in the way the stuffy closet air thickened.  
  
At least the doctor did not dance around it. “You’re going to lose the left foot, and probably the right,” he said. Nicky flinched and looked down, fist clenching in the bedclothes. “I’ll salve and wrap them, see if we can save some, but I’ve a feeling I’m going to have to amputate to the ankle on both.”  
  
Nicky’s eyes were wet again. He took another pull of the church wine. “Guess my career as a dancing girl is out the window, huh?”  
  
Andrew could not be here for this. There was too _much_ in the room: he was not good at this part. He spun on his heel and ran into the others, gathered as close as they could, listening. Andrew growled at them, pushing through, and didn’t turn as he heard them reform around Nicky and start fussing.  
  
When Josten emerged from the fray, shaking water droplets off his fingers, Andrew slammed him against the wall. The others moved fluidly, forming a half-circle around them to muffle and shield them from view. Andrew felt a rush of brotherhood.  
  
The doctor went still. “Can I help you?”  
  
“Yeah,” Andrew said. He applied more pressure with the arm over Josten’s throat, felt the man swallow against the bare skin of his forearm. The doctor was scarred even there, but then, so was Andrew. “You can show me your certifications, and then I’ll decide whether or not to kill you.”  
  
“Bold words for a man in borrowed clothes.” The hallway was dark, darker than outside had been, unless it was the contrast of the losing of the light bulb. It had hidden Josten’s face again. His hands, freshly washed, were cold. Andrew could feel them through his makeshift shirt.

“I’ve stolen clothes from dead men before.” And he had. There was no room for nicety on the killing fields. What a dead soldier had no more use for might save a live one.  
  
Josten met his eyes. “I’m sure you’re very brave, and strong, yes, so scary. Will you let me up so I can go get my papers?”  
  
Andrew glowered for a handful of moments to show that he was serious before prying his arm up. Josten rubbed at his throat. “I suppose it’s no use asking you to wait here.”  
  
“No,” Andrew confirmed. The rest traipsed after them, the doctor leading them down the hall, and then up the stairs—they creaked dangerously underfoot—and up another hall of doors, stopping before the last one to the right. He knocked and then, to Andrew’s surprise, opened the door a crack to stick his head in, speaking softly. It took Andrew a moment to realize he wasn’t speaking German. It sounded like he should be, but none of the words were ones Andrew knew. Even Jean was shaking his head, confused.  
  
There was a quiet rustling from inside. Andrew felt the rest of them tense behind him, even as he was, hands readying for weapons they had— _dammit! Idiots, all!—_ left with their clothing. A woman, of all things, opened the door, butter yellow light spilling out around her. She was wearing a scarf wrapped around her hair and pulling a knit shawl over a nightdress.  
  
Behind him, the others straightened, reacting to the presence of a woman. He thought he heard Kevin checking his breath. Andrew narrowly avoided rolling his eyes.  
  
“Your wife?” Andrew asked the doctor. He spoke in German, a test. “She’s a bit old for you.”  
  
Doctor Josten jolted. “What? No.”  
  
He’d also spoken in German, this time understandable. So. That was information.  
  
“His mother,” the woman said coldly, in the same language. Jean made a sound of disbelief. It was true, she looked nothing like the doctor. She was tall, for one, and her face a pale oval, not like the doctor’s darker skin and angular features. Still, Andrew knew how unlike each other families could be. Look at Nicky beside himself and Aaron. “Abigail Josten. What might I do for you?”  
  
“They want to see my certifications, _Mame_ ,” Doctor Josten said.  
  
“Do they.” She gave them a masterful look of disappointment. Andrew knew few officers who could do better. “Go on then, I suppose.”  
  
Kevin elbowed Aaron in the back, having learned better than to try it on Andrew. “What’s she saying?”  
  
“Giving us shit for checking out the doctor,” Aaron muttered back. “He _did_ offer to treat Nicky for free.”  
  
Andrew followed Josten closely behind as he stalked the length of the room. This doctor seemed the sort of man to try to pull a trick from far away. As he did he let his eyes catalogue the surroundings. It was unsurprisingly a small room, with exposed beams above and a cracked window stuffed with cloth. The floorboards creaked. There were here and there small evidences of its inhabitants; a book lying on a table beside the smaller of the two beds, candlesticks squirreled away in a few nooks, a wayward shoe tipped on its side before the door to the closet. It was still relatively sparse. Lived-in, but just barely. Andrew would bet that Josten and his mother retired here only for sleeping.  
  
A wobbly desk took up residence in the corner, making the room seem even tinier than it was. Doctor Josten removed a key from his vest pocket and unlocked a drawer, whence he drew a fat medical volume. From inside he took a pressed sheet of thick paper. He held it out to Andrew.  
  
“Don’t smudge it, if you can manage,” the doctor said. “There’s my diploma from Greifswald, and here,” he withdrew another sheet, “is my medical license.”  
  
Andrew cast an eye over them. He realized he had no way of telling good certifications from forgeries. “Germany.”  
  
“Right now I’d call myself unaffiliated.”  
  
“Neil Abram? Neither of those sound German.”  
  
“I didn’t realize I was speaking to a scholar of language.”  
  
“Once,” Andrew said, surprising himself. “Aaron!”  
  
Aaron plodded over. “What is your desire, O Corporal?”  
  
Andrew glared at him, _fuck you_ , and handed over the certifications. Aaron’s medical schooling had been incomplete, as he’d been put on a mandatory holiday for dipping into the college’s laudanum stores. He’d still be more qualified than Andrew to tell real from fake. Doctor Neil twitched as the certifications changed hands.  
  
“You made us wash,” Andrew pointed out.  
  
“And yet I can still smell you.”  
  
“These seem to be in order,” Aaron said, giving the papers back. Neil made a _well of course_ noise and tucked them gently back into the book, locking it in the drawer again.  
  
“You’ve had your proof,” Missus Josten called across the room. “Now if you could get out of this house and stop bothering my son?”  
  
Kevin looked abashed. “Sorry,” he said. “Ah, _Danke_? No—”  
  
“ _Entschuldigung,_ ” Aaron supplied, and then looked pissed off at himself for doing so.  
  
Kevin nodded. He was twisting his shirt in his hands. Looking at Missus Josten, he said, “Doctor, could you tell your mother we’ve—I’ve—we’ve—it’s just that we’ve had some bad experiences with civilian doctors. We didn’t mean to be disrespectful.” His face was earnest, open. It was a terrible lie, but with that face Kevin could sell the oyster for the pearl.  
  
Neil said something in that Germanlike language again. Andrew could only hope it was a correct translation, and the hope wasn’t strong. Still, his mother seemed to soften. “That’s understandable,” she said. Kevin nodded again and gave a strange half-bow Andrew had never seen before, and then, rubbing at the back of his neck, left the room. Andrew looked to Jean. Jean shrugged.  
  
“I want to see Nicky again,” Aaron said.

  
  
When Doctor Josten turned the light in the tiny cubby on, Nicky screamed. Even a blind man could not ignore it. The German soldier stirred.  
  
“Papa?” he said thickly, in sleepy German. “Is there something wrong with the cows?”  
  
“Go back to sleep, Mister Klose,” Neil said in the same language.  
  
The German soldier pushed himself up on one hand. “What woke me? Is there—" He touched two fingers to the bandage over his eyes. “Who else is in here?”  
  
“You’ve got a new roommate,” Neil said. He reached for the soldier’s hand and drew it across the gap between the beds. He held out his other, palm up, for Nicky’s. Nicky hesitated until Neil snapped his fingers, impatient, and Nicky sulkily surrendered. Neil brought the two men’s hands together and clasped them. “Mister Klose, this is Nicholas Hemmick. Mister Hemmick, Erik Klose.”  
  
“I thought you smelled better than a cow,” Erik said. Then he smiled. It was shocking, transforming his wan face into what he must have been before, a young man with sun on his brow and no worry but for the next winter’s meals. It was not a smile that belonged in a war.  
  
Nicky cleared his throat. In German more halting than Neil’s he replied, “I should hope so. Much more handsome, too.”  
  
Erik laughed. “I like this one, Doctor Josten. May I keep him?”

  
They really had no excuse then but to go.  
  
Andrew lingered by the door, once again naked—Neil had taken back the clothing—holding a hand out to stop Neil from turning back to the house. “When will you operate?”  
  
“Five days,” Neil said, terse. He did not seem to have forgiven them for doubting him. “Barring an attack that brings men with dragging intestines to my door. I suppose you wouldn’t tell me if your side had anything planned before then?”  
  
“Military secret,” Andrew said, and left to go back into the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Note:**
> 
> Though Wymack in this fic is enlisted in the British army, as Andrew suggests a number of Pacific Islanders fought in New Zealand regiments. New Zealand forces played an invaluable part in the First World War. The kiwi, the national bird of New Zealand, appeared on many New Zealand military badges, and soldiers adopted the moniker. “Kiwi” is currently used in the name of several New Zealand government services.
> 
> The Philippine National Guard was created in 1917 with the intent of aiding the Allies, but the war ended before those soldiers saw battle. Filipinos did serve as part of the American Expeditionary Forces, including Private Tomas Mateo Claudio, after whom the Tomas Claudio Memorial College in Morong Rizal, Philippines, is named.


	2. Iron Rations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional Warnings.** This chapter contains a semi-explicit surgical procedure. To skip, jump from "The worst part was watching Nicky fall asleep" to "They completed the surgery."

* * *

**iron rations /ˌaɪən ˈræʃ.ənz/ _n_.** emergency food supplies given to soldiers; also, enemy shellfire.

* * *

  
Getting back into the wet, filthy uniform was more horrible than Andrew had imagined, and he had seen men blown to smithereens so close the shreds of flesh spattered his face. He’d learned quickly to keep his mouth shut when the shells were falling.  
  
“How’d it go?” Renee asked, materializing out of the hillside they’d left. Andrew stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep from jumping—Aaron and Kevin weren’t so quick—and shrugged. She’d see Nicky wasn’t there and Andrew had come back, so Renee would know it had gone reasonably. She was just making conversation. She smiled, and Andrew realized he could see it; the sky was beginning to lighten to gray, no sun yet in this forsaken country. Only shades of dull and duller, until black overtook them all.  
  
Renee ushered them back into a tunnel that Andrew couldn’t find until Renee pointed it out to him, right under his feet. Blank though the sky was, the loss of it always set a panic up behind Andrew’s breastbone. It was like dying, only quieter.  
  
“At least Nicky’s out of this,” Renee said in an undertone as she pressed around Andrew to lead them. There was no way to keep from touching him, but the fact that she tried to make it minimal was one of the reasons they were friends.  
  
They had met in one of Wymack’s first experimental platoons, stitched together out of the survivors of other regiments that found themselves alone. Fights between the enlisted men and the tunnellers were common. The tunnellers hadn’t been through military training, and had neither enlisted nor been commissioned. They had been snagged from their sewer or mining jobs and placed at the front lines. The resulting ignorance of standardized discipline caused more scuffles than it didn’t, especially before people got settled with each other.  
  
(Renee said she hadn’t enlisted because she was a pacifist. Andrew figured that might be true, but that it had more to do with how she went by “Renee” and liked to sweet-talk the nurses into letting her try on their dresses.)  
  
Andrew had seen a brawl and, blast-mad from the loss of his squad, angry at the world and especially his officers, figured it must be a better cause for fighting than any king had given him. People often assumed he and Aaron were tunnellers anyway. The bantam units of shorter-than-regulation men drew from mining communities. He had woken later in a bunk he didn’t recognize and leapt to his heels with his knife.  
  
“Easy, doughboy,” a voice had said. Andrew had clenched his fist around the knife handle, and then forced it to loosen—a clenched fist felt stronger, but turned out to be the opposite—and let his spinning vision coalesce into a dark-eyed man sitting at the side of the bunk, feet sprawled out in front of him. “We’re the idiots you decided to help, we’re just returning the favor.”  
  
Andrew took quick stock of himself and confirmed he was still fully dressed. The only thing that had been taken was his rifle, which was propped up against the bed. Warily, he came out of his crouch and tipped his head back against the wall. His head thanked him kindly for it. He did not put away his knife.  
  
“Seth,” the man said. He had a knit cap pulled down over his head, non-regulation. “Private Gordon, technically, but don’t take my word for it.” He cupped his hands around his mouth “Hey-o! Your boy’s awake!”  
  
“Don’t be rude,” came another voice. A second soldier—Chinese—came out of the low doorway to the next room. “Did you even ask his name?”  
  
Seth shrugged. “Didn’t get around to it.”  
  
“Really now.” Something about the second soldier’s posture reminded Andrew of the women he’d seen carrying baskets around city markets, a child’s fist in one hand and a parasol in the other. The soldier turned to Andrew. “Sorry about him. His mama never taught him manners.”  
  
Andrew considered that this might be a dream. Then he reconsidered. If it were a dream, the smell would be better. “Why did you take me here?”  
  
“Why did you help?” The soldier settled neatly on the floor beside Seth, facing Andrew, hands resting on khaki knees. A thin chain swung loose from the soldier’s unbuttoned tunic collar, a delicate silver cross dangling. “I imagine they’re the same answer.”  
  
They eyed each other back and forth over Seth’s legs.  
  
“Minyard,” Andrew said eventually. He rested his knife in his lap. “Private First Class. Under Sergeant Wymack.” Technically, under Lieutenant Whittier, but Andrew knew what a poor man was worth to a rich one.  
  
“That makes us the same division, then. Private Walker. But I think _you_ can call me Renee.”  
  
Seth started, eyes darting between them. Andrew frowned.  
  
“Renee?”  
  
“Yes.” She held his gaze calmly. “It’s okay, Seth. We can trust him.”  
  
“Like hell we can,” Seth grumbled. Andrew could tell it was for show, mostly. Somehow, Renee was in charge here. Well; Andrew had his own reasons he wouldn’t kick a fuss about that sort of thing.   
  
Andrew did a lot of listening, that day. There wasn’t a lot of importance spoken, but he’d always been reticent to spill his own secrets. They had another roommate, Private Matthew Boyd, who seemed too tall to be allowed to be a tunneller, and far too optimistic about the end of the war. Andrew couldn’t decide whether he was faking it or truly soft in the head.  
  
They were Wymack’s the same way the rest of them were Wymack’s, because they’d been the only ones left alive. Renee showed him a ragged photograph, once they knew each other a little better: a full fifteen of them, smiling for the camera. Renee knew all their names. Andrew was impressed. People’s faces blurred together, after they got offed, part of the endless parade of the dead. What did it matter? Soon enough Andrew would join them. Soon enough they all would.  
  
She’d been deployed early to dig the tunnel they were in now. It was good to see her again, this side of the dirt. In a manner of speaking.  
  
When Renee guided them through the proper hole to their posting (Andrew shuddered at the thought of getting lost down there, all the twistings and turnings, earth above suffocating), Jean stayed her and swung his pack off. “Wait, I’ve something for you.” With some difficulty he extracted a bundle of cloth and passed it over.  
  
The look on Renee’s face was open and wondering as she passed the floral fabric through her fingers. Andrew wished sharply, jealously, that he had thought to bring it for her.  
  
“Can I keep this?” Jean had asked as they had undressed, holding up the calico skirt. “I’ve a friend who hasn’t seen the like in a long time.”  
  
And Neil Josten, who had pushed and argued every step of the day, had nodded without a fuss.  
  


* * *

  
The descent down into the officer’s quarters was an exercise in holding your nose. Every step brought with it another layer of human stench, like layers of soil had themselves gone rancid. Andrew was surprised his nostrils hadn’t already burned off from what they were assaulted with every day.  
  
The sorry corner of mud and repurposed boards that counted for Wymack’s office had sprung a leak. They found him barking orders at a private who had his boot caught in a splintered step. The private looked much relieved to be left to tend his misery alone. Kevin clapped him on the back in a commiserating way as they went past.  
  
There was no such thing as privacy in the trenches. Wymack found a cranny that was less in the way than the usual and crossed his arms. “Well?”  
  
Andrew saluted, and the rest of them followed suit. “Sir,” he said. “Most of the buildings are too short to be of use. The church bell tower is the only one with decent sightlines to the Germans. Most of the townspeople have left.”  
  
“About what I expected,” said Wymack. “The doctor?”  
  
Andrew was well practiced in suppressing his expressions. “Nothing yet about how he can find so many of us. But he’s serving both sides, Sir.”  
  
“Bleeding heart idiot,” Wymack muttered. “I see you got Hemmick in, at least. What’s your assessment on information drops?”  
  
Jean half-raised a hand. “Sir, if I may speak?”  
  
“Go ahead.”  
  
“I’d recommend Corporal Minyard, Sir. He and the doctor seemed to get along.”  
  
That was one way of putting it. If by one way you meant wrong.  
  
Kevin cleared his throat. “Sir, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Andrew speak so much to someone he just met. There’s some connection there.”  
  
Aaron made a noise of agreement. Betrayers, all of them.  
  
“Can’t say that was what I was expecting, but it’ll do,” Wymack said, turning his hawk eye on Andrew. “You’ll make it do, Corporal. I’ll get a schedule to you tomorrow.”  
  
“Sir, yes Sir,” Andrew said, resigned.

  
  
  
Andrew had strong opinions about words. There were ones he didn’t like ( _Family. Please. Fag_ , which made bumming cigarettes in England difficult. Andrew had learned to keep himself well supplied on his own). There were ones he did ( _Plum,_ fitting plump and round in his mouth. _Diocese_ , printed serif on the page like the name of a foreign flower instead of some boring Church precinct. _Avuncular_ , because it sounded like carbuncle, which had been Andrew’s experience with the breed).

Back in the States, he had hoarded every split-backed tome he could get his hands on. When he was rattling along in the railroad car with the other child rejects, yet again, he could simply escape to somewhere else. When the Kodak-advertisement couples who wanted a sweet child to set on the right path or a strapping young boy to help with the work turned out to want something else, Andrew could return to those places and invent lives of his own there.

His own writing had always had a tendency towards metaphor.

(The last one, Cas, had seemed different. It wasn’t until her son had returned from his summer gallivanting with friends that Andrew had learned it had simply skipped a generation. Lemonade never tasted sweet anymore, not to Andrew’s tongue.)

Bee—Nurse Dobson, officially, but Nurse Dobson was everybody’s and Bee was Andrew’s own—was fussing with the Tommy cooker when Andrew came in.  
  
“I swear I start it before you get here every time, but it’s getting weaker,” Bee fretted, holding her hands over the pitiful heat. She insisted upon having tea every time Andrew visited. Her mother, she said often, had brought her up to be a good hostess. Andrew wondered what her mother would say if she could see Betsy, now. A tiny camp stove stuck in the muddy ground with a soldier’s mess pot for a kettle was hardly high dining.  
  
Andrew picked up the stove by the fuel canister, ignoring Bee’s admonishing look. The burns on his fingers could be no worse than the ones he got every day from the end of a cigarette. The side was dented, but who knew if un-denting it would help? “Two hours to boil half a pint,” Andrew recited, setting the cooker back down. Bee sighed and put her tiny pot of water on top of it anyway.  
  
Round and middle-aged, with small wire-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose, Nurse Betsy Dobson reminded Andrew of the English schoolmarms he'd seen illustrated in books. To surround her with the trappings of the Western Front was absurd to the point of farcical theatre. But Bee had a steel-trap memory for past ailments, and was efficient without resorting to manhandling. She could have a man bandaged and sent off before he'd even known he'd been shot, and resolving to write home to his mother, too.   
  
She’d been another transplant in Wymack’s unit. Andrew wasn’t sure how a nurse had managed the clout to attach herself to troop movements, and Bee wouldn’t tell him. It was annoying. He’d get it out of her one day.  
  
Bee shared a bunk with a handful of female message-runners and medical staff. The rest of them were out, for duty or pleasure. Andrew would not have come if there were to be others present. Besides, the women didn’t like him. They found him crude and abrasive. That was fine. Andrew didn’t like _them_.  
  
He and Bee sat across from each other on lower bunks, tilting forward to keep from knocking their heads on the underside of the tops, even Andrew. While Bee fussed with the pot Andrew lit a cigarette and pulled out the tin of bread pudding he’d saved, opening it with his folding knife. His contribution to the weekly get-together, to go with Bee’s lukewarm tea.  
  
It had started when Andrew had caught a fever and refused to go to the aid station, or take the pills Doctor Higgins pressed onto him when Nicky had dragged Andrew there anyway. Bee had made a deal that if he came to see her in three days and was able to have a whole meal without seeming sick at all, then she wouldn’t make him stay. Wednesday tea had been added to the roster of Andrew’s life, and he didn’t like to admit how much he appreciated it. It was a respite from the drudgery of the trenches, and the regular schedule gave Andrew something to count the days by so they didn’t blur into an indistinguishable, muddy smear.

“What have you got for me today, Andrew?” Bee asked. She didn’t mean the pudding, though Andrew handed it over for Bee to stick her own spoon in. He reached into the breast pocket of his tunic and pulled out a small notebook and dirty pencil, bound in leather and wrapped in scrap oilskin to keep it from the wet. As much as anything could be.  
  
“Been thinking about writing one about the smell of shit,” Andrew said, opening the notebook and flipping through the pages. “What’s a rhyme for ‘malodorous?’”  
  
“Preposterous?” Bee suggested. Between the Tommy cooker and the lamp flickering down from the short wooden ledge between the bunks, Andrew could see her smiling serenely. He’d yet to do something that shocked her. By now trying was more about habit than any real attempt.  
  
“The trenches steeped in fumes malodorous, to crap this much would seem preposterous,” Andrew murmured idly. Bee stifled a laugh. He found the page he was looking for and tapped the messy writing with a fingernail. “I want your opinion on the blankets one again. I still think your obsession with semicolons is full of shit so I threw a couple in to show you how bad it sounds.”  
  
“Let’s hear it then,” Bee said, resettling her glasses on her nose. Andrew stretched his legs out and cleared his throat.  
  
Bee was the only other person who had heard Andrew’s poems. She was confidant, critic, and editor. Her pedantry about grammar and poetic form butted heads with Andrew’s admittedly fanciful style. He bitched about it but he kept coming back. It made for better poetry, in the end. And when she was arguing with him about the correct usage of _thy_ she wouldn’t be laughing at him. Or worse, understanding him.  
  
It wasn’t really letting his walls down. It was sending down a rope to someone who would never deign to climb without it.

Two days into Andrew’s newest shift on the front line trench, the Germans decided Hell wasn’t coming fast enough.  
  
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” the boy next to him was chanting, hands shaking on his rifle. Andrew tried to ignore him and huddled closer against the wall of the trench, eyes slits to keep dirt and debris from falling into them. He could feel the pull of the shock and forced it away by biting at the inside of his mouth. It would be so comforting, to let go into madness. Andrew wasn’t sure why he still fought it, just that he did. The duckboards underfoot were slick with blood.  
  
BOOM.  
  
Mud and viscera splattered Andrew as he crouched to cover his face with both arms. The board lifted with the shockwave, sending Andrew slipping to the ditchwater underneath. He scrambled up before he could get stuck, a thread of panic running through his fingers scrabbling against the soft earth. Where was Aaron? Where was Kevin? Jean? There were bodies all around him, some of them alive, but he was alone.  
  
BOOM.  
  
Black smoke poured into the air. That would be from one of the big shells the soldiers had named “Jack Johnsons” after the heavyweight boxer, for their powerful punch. The front wall of the trench shivered. Andrew forced a breath in through his clenched-tight lungs before he was buried under pounds of sludge. His kit was dragging him down. His hands were raw, skin peeling away from the fingertips. He tried to kick and kick again, getting a foothold to push himself back up, but the water of the ditch kept crumbling away the bottom. Andrew’s arm slammed into a rock, hard. He would die here, under the mud, his gasping breaths through his nose as he forced his mouth to stay closed, lungs protesting.  
  
BOOM. BOOM.  
  
The mud shook. Andrew tipped sideways, legs held painfully below. He forced his arms through the heavy weight of the earth. His grasping fingers touched something that wasn’t dirt. It gave underneath and Andrew felt splintered bone. It cut his fingers.  
  
His helmet pulled down over his face, dripping mud. He couldn’t see. Frantic, Andrew struggled his harness webbing down over his hips, dragging at his pants and catching. It tangled his knees. He clawed through the corpse, tearing apart organ meat, the too-warm blood trickling inside his uniform sleeves and itching. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe.  
  
A vise clamped around his arm from above. Andrew thrashed, trying to break free, until the ringing in his ears forced itself around words—“Goddammit, Andrew, stop! It’s Jean! It’s Jean.”  
  
Andrew kicked out and with Jean’s help he let himself be dragged from the pile of mud and corpses. The acrid smoke scent of shells was around them. Through the haze of sound he heard the whistle-pop of an incoming shell and slammed back against the wall of the trench, taking Jean with him. Shrapnel pinged off his helmet and cut a line of fire across his cheek, adding to the blood pouring into his mouth.  
  
Jean was shouting something, gesturing between Andrew and the back wall. Andrew couldn’t hear, but he nodded and followed Jean as he dropped to the splintered boards and crawled through the mud, rifle held over his head as if that would protect him. Andrew’s hand hit wet wool and a fist snagged his sleeve.  
  
“Please,” the man whimpered. His eyes were wide, terrified, crying. Clinically the back of Andrew’s head noted that there was no blood in his mouth. Maybe he’d survive this if he huddled down. “Please, take me with you, I can’t walk—”  
  
_“Ma! Mommy! Mama!”_ The screaming was all around. There was no such thing as a dignified death in Flanders fields.  
  
Andrew reached to grasp the man’s arm and pulled, as Jean had done for him. The man’s whole torso moved out of the sucking mud. Only his torso. Below the waist was a ragged hole. Andrew tried to yank his hand away, bile rising in his throat, but the man had fastened on with the grip of the desperate dead.  
  
“Please!”  
  
“Get away from me!” Andrew yelled, shaking his hand. Jean shouted at him to keep up. Another shell hit. The mud heaved up underneath him, his stomach rising with his knees, the particulate matter of the trenches loose as he fought not to topple. The half-man was swallowed up. Andrew scratched at the mud frantically, trying to find him again.  
  
“Andrew! Now!”  
  
Jean’s French accent gave Andrew something to concentrate on. He followed it blindly, his vision narrowed to the blood and limbs and scattered ammunitions before his reaching hands. When he felt the edge of an opening he dragged himself into it and found Jean waiting. Jean clapped him on the shoulder. His face was entirely covered in gore. Andrew slumped against the wall and realized they were in a dugout. They should get farther inland, be safer, but Andrew wasn’t sure he could ever move again. He reached for his canteen and remembered he’d left his kit in the mud.  
  
Jean passed him his own canteen, and Andrew gulped a mouthful of water, tasting of gasoline from the canisters they carried it in, and spat to wash the taste of blood from his mouth. It helped, some. His fingers didn’t shake. They never did. Andrew had given up trying to understand why and simply taken the blessing for what it was.  
  
Jean was muttering a steady stream of French profanity as he checked his rifle, scraping mud from the bottom of the magazine. His fingers moved quickly, purposefully. There was no way he could get a shot from here. Andrew knew a soothing mechanism when he saw it. A rat ran over Andrew’s foot, and another bit at the pockets of his trousers. Andrew was too tired to shove them away.  
  
BOOM.  
  
Andrew’s meager breakfast fought to come back up. He swallowed, tasting mud and copper, to keep it down.

“ _Allaahummak-fineehim bimaa shi'ta,”_ Jean was murmuring now. “ _Allaahumma 'innaa naj'aluka fee nuhoorihim_ —"  
  
Andrew covered his ears with his hands. He had an itch on his neck from the clotting blood. It broke through his consciousness and focused there, taking all of his attention. He tried to scratch it but the strap of his helmet was in the way and he couldn’t figure out how to move it.  
  
Maybe Jean was shouting, not murmuring. Andrew couldn’t tell. He could go mad. What a relief, here, to go mad. He could let go and slip into whatever fancies his mind created for him until he died. All he had to do was stop fighting.  
  
_“Allaahummak-fineehim bimaa—”  
  
“Mama! Mommy!”  
  
“Help me!”  
  
“Please, God please—”_  
  
_And the endless boom of the shells, the shells, the shells—_  
  


It was over.  
  
Andrew uncurled himself from the ball he’d folded into at some point, muscles cramping at being clenched for so long. He let out a long, slow breath and forced himself to wiggle his limbs until the circulation started flowing again. He’d lost four fingernails in his frantic digging. Andrew folded his fingertips into his palms and squeezed. The spike of pain helped him stand up.  
  
“They haven’t come yet. Sergeant Towns is dead, or so the rumors say.” Jean said. He clicked the sights of his rifle up, back. His model was a Berthier, 07/15, a bullshit with only three shots. Andrew could focus on that. He was angry now. There was a reason not to sink into the numbness.  
  
Andrew forced himself to take an aching step, and then another. He needed to be ready. Because the reason, of course, for an artillery barrage was to soften up your enemies so you could raid their trenches and kill those sorry sods that had managed to survive.  
  
Automatically his hand went up to pat his breast pocket. Andrew did not have precious things, any more. The surge of relief he felt at finding his notebook intact was a weakness.  
  
“You have the wrong language for poetry. English. Ha!” Jean shook his head, and the familiar argument helped soothe the ragged bowstrings of Andrew’s nerves.  
  
“At least we don’t sound like we’ve got a throat full of cock,” Andrew said. “We get fucked hard enough in the Poor Bloody Infantry.”

  
  
By the time Andrew got back to his bunk—sore, bloodied, and numb at the face and fingers from the kickback of his rifle—he was almost too tired to take off his boots. He lay on his back with his feet hanging off the bed for a long time, staring at the hastily-constructed ceiling. A drop of mud dribbled between the roof boards and landed on his nose. Andrew sneezed, sighed, and rocked upright to strip boots and socks off and massage feeling back into his feet. It would be embarrassing to wind up like Nicky.  
  
Aaron stumbled in, coming back from a piss, and collapsed facedown on his own bunk. He groaned. A few minutes later he rolled over and started doing the same routine as Andrew. They were too tired to look at each other, but Andrew felt the comfort of having his twin there. Having his twin alive. Unhurt. Relatively.  
  
“I. Hate. Germans,” Aaron said, punctuating each word with a punch to his thin, louse-y mattress. The last one made the metal bedframe creak ominously. “Give me a grenade and a head start, and I’ll kill them all.”  
  
“Plane’d be better,” Andrew pointed out, flopping backwards now that his feet were tended to. Even these beds were too large, so he had to scoot backwards to get his head up near the top end. “You could take a bigger bomb, get away fast.” He let himself imagine it, shelling the German line from above, speeding away as they became mud and bloody mist behind him. It was a comforting thought.  
  
Then he thought of the dizzying height, imagined the whirling crash of being shot out of the air. Maybe he’d do like Renee’s team and get them from below.  
  
“I hope they all die of quintan fever. I hope the rats eat them while they scream.” Aaron aimed a kick at a particularly large rat scuttling around the end of his bed. The rat squealed. Aaron wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Fuck. I can’t calm down enough to sleep after a day like today. You got pistol rounds left?”  
  
“Plenty,” Andrew said. He’d taken a mostly-intact kit from one of the dead, with some German binoculars from a Kraut he’d speared through the neck and a few other scavenging items, here and there. He gathered the will to sit up and then did, dragging his boots back towards him. He wanted to lie down, but if Aaron was going to be tramping about, Andrew wasn’t going to let him go alone. “First one to twenty gets Kevin’s rum ration.”  
  
“You read my mind,” Aaron said, grabbing his own pistol and checking the clip. Andrew’s filched Luger 9mm was German-made, but Aaron still had Webley revolver he’d been issued at the beginning of the war. He called it lucky when he thought Andrew was too far away to hear.  
  
Shooting rats had a satisfaction to it that Andrew figured would get him thrown in an asylum if he were anywhere else than a war. It felt good to get back at some of the fuckers who woke him in the middle of the night with their scratching. He and Aaron set up behind some downed sandbags and picked off the rats lazily, one by one. It was an easy action to pass the time. The rats ate so well down here, were so big and ungainly, that they hardly knew a bullet was coming at them before they were dead.  
  
Eight rats in (seven to Aaron), Aaron fidgeted and rested his elbow on his knees. Andrew made himself comfortable against the mud. He knew when his twin wanted to talk about something, and had learned that trying to escape it didn’t help any. Just prolonged the waiting.  
  
Aaron laid his pistol down on his knee. “Got a letter from Kate the other day.”  
  
Andrew didn’t respond. Aaron was speaking in sign, and his hands were clear enough. His brother was more comfortable that way. Aaron had enough hearing to pass a military examination, but he had trouble picking out one sound among many, and his wife Katelyn had been deaf since birth. Andrew had made it a priority to learn Aaron’s BSL over the scraps of ASL he'd picked up in the States. It marked a difference between the two of them, Aaron and Andrew. Reminded him that they’d grown up thousands of miles apart, as if either of them could ever forget it.

Andrew knew what this was about. He’d seen the letter come in. He hadn’t read it, though he’d been tempted. He’d been trying to be better about that, where his brother was concerned. If he pushed Aaron away here, then the fool might get himself killed.  
  
Aaron took Andrew’s lack of response for what it was, neither encouragement nor refusal. “She says the girls had their birthday party. Says she had a couple of the other VAD nurses over. They had chocolate cake. Everyone brought a bit of ration and they made it together.”  
  
Aaron’s motions were rough. He’d known Katelyn through childhood, and married her when war hit the Isles, a glorious sending-off for a brave and gallant Tommy. Katelyn had discovered she was pregnant a month after Aaron had shipped out. Now he had two young daughters, twins, whom he’d only seen in photographs.  
  
Andrew was disgusted by it almost as much as he wanted it, sharply, alone in his bunk. Not the children. Not—hell no—the woman. But a family, someone waiting for you. Someone to write you letters.  
  
Cas had written him one letter, congratulating him on enlistment. He’d burned it in the flame from his cigarettes and later pretended he hadn’t opened it. But that had been a lie.  
  
Aaron picked up his gun again, aimed, shot. Another rat squealed and fell over with a squishing thump.  
  
He said, “I don’t like thinking they’ll never know their father before I die.”  
  
Andrew fired off two shots—one to come up even, and one to stay in the lead—before answering. “You sure they’re yours? Could be that mailman who’s so nice bringing letters between you.”  
  
“Fuck off,” Aaron said. He sighed, long and slow, and then picked off another rat. When he spoke again his gestures had smoothed some. That was all Aaron wanted, when he talked to Andrew like this: Andrew to listen. Or maybe he knew it was all he could get. Andrew could figure that. He’d had enough time himself with people who refused to do that much.  
  
“God, I miss cake. Fuck, you know what I miss, pie. Flaky crust and the apples with the sweet syrup.”  
  
At that, Andrew gave a meaningful grunt. They got sweets sometimes, somebody’s mother or wife sending out a hamper of baked goods that got shared around. But they were none of them fresh, and far-between besides. If you crushed up the biscuits real good and mixed them with water, and then held them over a fire to warm, then you got almost close enough to pretend you were eating the exact opposite of pastry.  
  
“She send you any?” he asked, when Aaron had spent a while staring into the darkness, despite the several rats scuttling before him in easy shot.  
  
Aaron jerked. He shook his head. “Told her not to bother a couple months ago. It would just get stale. She should keep it for herself and her friends.”  
  
There was a long pause in his signing that Andrew ignored. Once, Aaron had been sure he would get out of here, survive, go back home. He’d learned better, in the mud.  
  
They all had. Andrew had been the only one to go in knowing he’d never come out.

He stared at his notebook for a long time that night. Eventually he wrote a line about shellfall and things even nurses couldn’t cure. Somehow it made him think of blue eyes.

Nicky was overjoyed to see Andrew on surgery day.  
  
It was stifling, and did not help Andrew’s own anxiety about what was to come. He put Doctor Josten between them mainly in self-defense. Nicky gave up trying to embrace Andrew and settled for making eyes at the doctor, who was once again ignoring him. Andrew stress-smoked two cigarettes in just the time it took Neil to brief Nicky about what would happen.  
  
Andrew was trying to figure out how to insist on following his cousin to the surgical theatre in a way that wouldn’t be refused—not that that would stop Andrew, but messing with a doctor who had his cousin under the knife was a bad enough idea to merit at least an attempt at a smoother going—when Neil turned to him and pursed his lips.  
  
“What?” Andrew ground out the butt of his cigarette on his borrowed trousers. He was back in the same pair from last week. This time, Neil had found him a shirt.  
  
“I’d rather not have both medical professionals trapped in surgery for the next few hours,” Neil said. “It’s good to have one of us out here in case something goes wrong. How steady are your hands?”  
  
Andrew held up ten fingers that didn’t shake.  
  
“Good,” Neil said. “You’re my assistant, then.”  
  
Andrew frowned. “I’m not trained.”  
  
“Don’t worry. All you’ll be doing is handing me things. It’ll make the surgery go faster for your cousin,” Neil added, and dammit. The man had Andrew there.  
  
Neil went upstairs and came back down with a packet of papers bound together. They were odd shapes and somewhat dingy, curled at the edges from handing. He gave it to Andrew. “Study this. Try to remember what you can.”  
  
Andrew nearly threw the packet down on instinct, but kept ahold of it at the last minute and flipped through the first pages. They were illustrations from a medical book, various surgical tools cut out and pasted under what Andrew assumed must be their German names. Thick pencil, printed painstakingly clearly. Neil had done this with press-ganged relatives before, then.  
  
“I’ll call you when the room is ready. Don’t bother being anxious, the morphine slows your heart rate,” Neil said to Nicky, and set off for the front of the house, picking his hair up off the back of his neck. Andrew looked at Nicky and raised his eyebrows.  
  
“He’s not Mister Bedside Manner, but at least he’s nice to look at,” Nicky allowed. Andrew jostled Nicky’s legs to make him yelp and set to learning the tools in the packet.  
  
When Neil came back, he and Andrew helped Nicky to the front of the house. Neil had taken over the kitchen as his operating theater. A heavy wooden table filled the center of the room, long enough for even Kevin or Jean to lie stretched out on. Beside it was a chair, carrying a tray on top of the seat and a wrapped bundle on top of that. One of the cabinets had lost its doors, and inside Andrew saw gauze, folded towels, and a few scrubbed mismatched bins containing surgical equipment.  
  
“Big bone saw you got,” Andrew said, for Nicky’s benefit.  
  
“I’m disowning you,” Nicky said, looking a few seconds from puking.  
  
There were two white aprons hanging on a coat stand by the sink, one like a butcher’s apron and one that was a long-sleeved surgical gown. Otherwise the room was startlingly bare.  
  
Neil gave the table a wipe-down with antiseptic (Andrew had never been a fan of how strongly Dakin’s solution smelled of chlorine) and Andrew gave Nicky a boost up onto it. Nicky was smiling determinedly. Andrew could see him hyperventilating, and was about to hit him to get him to take a real breath when Neil called Andrew over to the sink.  
  
“Plumbing’s shaky,” Neil said, when he twisted the faucet and nothing came out. “Give it a minute. There.” Slowly, water creaked out of the pipe, and then started spattering on the bottom of the basin, dysphonic and tinny. He peeked back at Nicky. Nicky gave a green-faced thumbs-up.  
  
Neil supervised Andrew washing his hands—damned annoying, if the man kept watching like that Andrew would go twitchy—and got him one of the aprons, a pair of arm cuffs that were tight around his wrists but covered him over the shirt up past his elbows, and a pair of tight rubber gloves. Andrew flexed his fingers: he couldn’t imagine doing detail work like this. Then, rather imperiously, Andrew thought, Neil scrubbed his own hands and forearms and indicated that Andrew should give the other apron and pair of gloves to him.  
  
“They’re right there,” Andrew said.  
  
“I would think that a soldier would be more knowledgeable about what happens in a hospital,” Neil said. Andrew shrugged. His general strategy for being in the hospital was to get out of it as soon as possible.  
  
Andrew held out the surgical gown for Neil to step into and tied it in the back. He worked the other pair of gloves over Neil’s hands, Neil taking over once his hands were covered to tug the fingers fully down. Besides the blisters from the mustard gas, there were also several knife scars, some clean, and some jagged. Andrew wondered if any of them were from poorly wielded scalpels in medical school.  
  
He had surprisingly delicate hands, Neil. Slender, oval palms, and thin fingers, bony about the second knuckle. Beside them, even in the gloves, Andrew’s hands looked blunt and square. He resisted the urge to slap Neil’s hands down so he wouldn’t have to look at them.  
  
The worst part was watching Nicky fall asleep. Neil had Nicky roll on his side and injected the sedative carefully into his lower spine with a needle that seemed entirely too large to be allowed. Andrew forced himself not to look away, and when Nicky slumped he made sure he was the one to catch him and roll him onto his back. Nicky’s mouth lolled. Andrew closed it. He found Neil watching him and took his hands away.

Andrew realized, once he was standing with gloved hands poised above the table of instruments, that he had never been present for a surgery at any level of professionalism above "slapdash."  
  
Well, he thought, glancing over at the tin of wooden spoons and spatulas still sitting innocently under the cupboards, this was pretty slapdash itself. He wasn't sure if that made him feel better about submitting Nicky to the knife, or worse.  
  
Neil wiped his gloved hands with a cloth dunked in Dakin's and unwrapped Nicky's feet.  
  
They looked more disgusting, laid out on the clean table, than they had in the trenches. Andrew could barely believe they'd been feet at all. The smell was atrocious. The way it clotted over the acerbic stink of the antiseptic turned Andrew's stomach. He gritted his teeth and imagined boxing his own ears. He'd seen worse things than a little bit of surgery.  
  
"Razor," Neil said in German, holding out a hand. Andrew took a breath in through his mouth and handed it over. A strange, fizzing weight sank to the bottom of his stomach. This was it. There was no turning back from this now.  
  
Neil shaved Nicky's ankles and calves and then sprayed him from knee to foot with what Andrew had learned from trying it out was a perfume atomizer filled with more antiseptic. He applied the tourniquet to Nicky's right leg. The first cut made Andrew's head buzz alarmingly—again, something of the blood surrounded by the stark sterility of even this makeshift hospital made it seem more wrong than blood in the trenches—made him remember what it had felt like holding a knife to his own skin when he was thirteen—in any case. He pulled himself together with coiled anger, and it got easier.  
  
“ _Die Watteträger_ ,” Neil said. “It’s the—”  
  
“I know,” Andrew said shortly. He passed the wadding over. Neil met his eyes, mouth opening in surprise, before nodding and continuing the surgery. He didn’t offer clarification again. Andrew was, stupidly, pleased.  
  
When he could distance his head from it being his cousin there, on the slab, he could find something almost beautiful about the calm dance of efficiency in the surgical removal of limb. For Neil was calm here, not poised to run as he had always been before. He sank into some different headspace, not speaking except for the name of the next instrument Andrew was to present to his hand.  
  
Those hands were an artist’s, here, cutting delicately away the rotten flesh as if the body were an unfinished sculpture. Andrew had seen desperate battlefield amputations, quick and brutal; he found himself mesmerized by the way Neil teased apart the tissue, circling the limb again and again with his _Amputationsmesser_ , using _chirurgische Pinzette_ and _Schere_ with, Andrew permitted himself the phrase, surgical precision. Andrew fell into the rhythm of it, watching Neil display a mastery Andrew could not have hoped for even if hope had been a thing he did.  
  
"Check his pulse," Neil murmured. Andrew moved to do so and was jerked roughly out of the deep lake of his fascination when he saw Nicky's features. He hated Nicky for a moment, and then himself for the thought, and turned the sentiment where it belonged back to Neil. The skin of Nicky's throat had never felt so fragile, even through the damned gloves. Andrew checked twice to make sure. Nicky's pulse was slow.  
  
"Still breathing," Andrew snapped. He glared at Neil. Neil wasn't even looking at him. Andrew was aghast to find himself resentful. If Neil had taken his eyes away from his patient on the operating table, Andrew would have hit him.  
  
After he'd closed the wound. Of course. Since it was Nicky.  
  
Getting back to that calm lake proved impossible, now that Andrew was again aware it was his cousin on the table. He watched Neil closely. When Neil got to the bone he grabbed Neil's arm.  
  
"Let go," Neil said. Still calm. Still so unshakable. Bastard.  
  
Andrew did not let go. "Why are you cutting so high?"  
  
Now Neil showed emotion: he shot Andrew a scathing glance. "What do you think happens when you cut a bone? It comes out smooth like a river rock? If I cut here,” he indicated the end of the limb, where Andrew would have expected the surgical cut, “the bone will be too sharp, and cut from the inside. He needs to be able to put weight on these later."  
  
Andrew's temper flashed, defensive. "I've seen amputations before."  
  
Neil rolled his eyes. " _Des guillotines,_ " he said, in scornful, exaggerated French, before dropping back into German. "We want your cousin to have _working_ limbs. If I wanted to be a butcher I would have gotten a job selling meats."  
  
It had not occurred to Andrew that Nicky would have anything useful at the ends of his legs, after this. He released of Neil's arm. Neil shook it, exaggerated, and bent back over his patient.

Andrew held his tongue sullenly until Neil called for _Nadelhalter, Nadel_ , and _Wundnahtpinzette_ , and began sewing Nicky back up. He started by attaching Nicky's muscle to his bone. Andrew was not an expert, but he was fairly certain that was not where muscle went. He grabbed Neil's arm again. This time Neil subsided with a sigh, turning an exasperated gaze on him.  
  
"You've seen my credentials," he said.  
  
Andrew waited. He didn't trust anything, as a rule.  
  
"Look," Neil said. He set down the instruments, delicately, and raised his gloved hands before Andrew's face. There was blood staining the green rubber. Andrew had not thought about it until then.  
  
"You have yet to do something worthy of my attention," Andrew said, which was true in the immediate present but not for the past of a few seconds ago. Andrew was very interested in Nicky's well-being.  
  
Neil folded his fore-knuckle down and pressed it against his opposite palm. "The muscle needs something to push against. It needs support. Maybe in your military they hang tubes of muscle around the bone like sausages, but where I come from we have some sophistication."

"A country mudhole that missed the industrial revolution?" Andrew said. A hot flush was climbing up his neck. He did not like the feeling that he was being talked down to.  
  
Neil clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Your cousin will bleed out on my table if I don't get back to surgery."  
  
Andrew bowed, theatrical, and ushered his hands towards Nicky. Neil picked up the atomizer and sprayed his gloves down close enough to Andrew's face that Andrew got a mouthful of bitter droplets. Andrew coughed. Neil looked vindictive, his face for one moment a wild twist of glee and ruthless triumph. Andrew stood up quickly, his stomach turning over in an uncomfortable way.  
  
They completed the surgery in silence, Neil's icy, Andrew's hot. Neil finished off with wooden splints strapped to the ends of Nicky's legs. If Andrew squinted, it gave the surrealist impression that Nicky's feet had transformed into the table. _Oh that this too, too solid flesh would melt._  
  
A different folio returned _sullied._ Andrew figured both could fit. Nicky’s flesh had been solid, and then it had been sullied. In either case it was gone.

  
After carrying Nicky back to his cot and spending more time that he would admit fussing with his pillows, Andrew returned to the kitchen. He began peeling off his apron, and then realized Neil had disappeared. Swearing under his breath, he opened the front door to shout, and found Neil where he’d been the first night, washing his hands in the horse trough. He had a cigarette in his mouth, but it looked like he was tasting it more than smoking it. It had gone out and just rested there, poking out the corner like a child’s lollipop.  
  
Andrew thumped down the steps and leaned up against the side of the trough. Immediately damp seeped from the wood to his borrowed clothes. “Inside not good enough for you?”  
  
“It’s easier to dispose of the water out here,” Neil said around the cigarette. “And it’s a bigger basin.”  
  
“Trough,” Andrew corrected. The surgical instruments were soaking at the bottom of it. Neil was fishing them out and scrubbing them one by one, placing them on the tray, which was precariously balanced on the edge beside the towel. Andrew wondered how annoyed Neil would be if he knocked it over. “If you’re not going to smoke that, hand it over. Waste of bad tobacco.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Andrew leaned in and tugged on that lollipop end. The paper stuck to Neil’s lips as it pulled free, damp from his tongue. Andrew stuck it in his own mouth and fished in his pockets for his lighter.  
  
Neil was scrubbing the instruments with particular vendetta. Andrew wondered if cleanliness required that much vitriol. He tried to content himself with a judgmental look, but when the water splashed his hip he gave in.  
  
“This is hot,” he said, poking a fingertip in the water. Neil eyed his hand like he wanted to swat at it but, luckily for his continued use of unshredded lungs, did not. “You make me wash in it cold.”  
  
“I don’t like you,” Neil said primly. It startled a hitch in the back of Andrew’s throat. He pushed his hand into the water up to the wrist. It was pleasant, against the unseasonable chill, if you ignored the itching suds and the slight pink tinge from the blood.  
  
“You didn’t have to take Nicky in,” Andrew said. He watched Neil out of the corner of his eye, pretending to focus on the oily soap swirling over the back of his hand. “Why did you?”  
  
Neil pressed his lips into a thin line. “I don’t like the ones where something happens to the legs.”  
  
“That’s not the answer to the question I asked. Is it getting there?”  
  
“I’m not answering that question,” Neil said. He set an instrument— _die_ _Myrtenblattsonde_ , Andrew’s hours-old knowledge told him—on the tray and patted his hands on his vest. Droplets of water beaded on the wool. Poor man’s diamonds. “If I take away someone’s ability to run, have I really helped them?”  
  
“Interesting idea. You wouldn’t do well in the army, with the talk about running away.”  
  
For some reason, Neil laughed. Andrew knew the sound only because of the way Neil reacted to making it, frowning in surprise and covering his mouth. It was a harsh sound, like wooden shingles rasping together. It matched the doctor’s scars and not his eyes.  
  
There wasn’t much blue on the front.

Even when the sky was clear it felt gray, pressing down on them all.  
  
That sounded like—something, or it would be, once Andrew worked it out. He reached for his breast pocket, remembered he was half-naked, and swore. His coat was thrown over the bannister; Andrew rifled through it until he found his notebook and, chewing absently on the end of the cigarette—nasty flavor, but he was used to it by now—scribbled down _gray = oppressive? Sky, Germans? Think.  
  
_“You spell that the American way,” Neil said, pointing at the page. Andrew froze. He slowly closed the notebook and put it back into his coat. The rush of fear-anger-danger was pounding in his ears.  
  
“Don’t look at that,” he said, low. He’d mashed the cigarette in his teeth; he spat it out. “I know doctors don’t understand privacy, but most aren’t cunts about it.”  
  
“You haven’t met many doctors then,” Neil said, in a way that meant he knew it was false. Andrew felt his shoulders rising, hands coming up to hurt, and Neil stepped back, shirtsleeves trailing water. “You came here without explanation and demanded to see my papers. You’re trusting me with your cousin, and yet you clearly don’t want to. You can’t blame me for being curious.”  
  
Words died on Andrew’s tongue. There wasn’t a way to explain it—how the mud had stolen every bit of privacy from him, the army tried to mold him into a one-size-fits-all shape and he hadn’t been able to fight it completely. How the people around him had seen him unclothed, screaming, weeping, in pain. . . naked. This was the last bit of himself he had to himself, and it was the deepest. A kernel inside of him hard and eternal, some unpassable kidney stone. If Neil read Andrew’s poetry he would have Andrew’s soul.  
  
He was filled with the sudden, violent urge to rip Neil’s face off with his teeth.  
  
“Go away,” Andrew said. His voice was an unrecognizable rasp.  
  
“This is my house,” Neil pointed out. He dipped his hands in the water again and resumed his washing.  
  
Andrew breathed harshly through his nose. He reached for a cigarette, and then some heat in him burst and he wound up and swept his arm and leg out, knocking over the tray and the trough and the whole dammed setup onto the uncaring earth. He grabbed the bundle of his clothes and stalked away. Neil was shouting behind him, but Andrew couldn’t hear the words over the rushing in his ears.

It was when he got back to Renee’s tunnel that he realized he’d stolen the trousers. He was glad. He would steal all that Neil had, his house and his fucking _Myrtenblattsonde_ and his practice, and leave him bare, if he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Note:**
> 
> Great strides were made in medicine during the first world war, due to the sharing of information between countries, the influx of patients, and—to be honest—the fact that doctors and nurses were forced to throw everything they could think of at the wall (or in this case, the soldier) to see what would stick. An astonishing number of misguided ideas were tested, many proving detrimental, even fatal, to the unfortunate patient. The practices we remember are the ones that worked.
> 
> (Also, tampons. Shoutout to tampons.)
> 
> Still, field medicine often requires a certain lack of finesse. Guillotine amputations—the rather indelicate term for amputations performed by cutting through all layers of the limb at once, without closure of the skin—were outdated by World War I, but they made a resurgence in army hospitals because they were faster (thus allowing for treatment of more patients) and less prone to infection in the filthy conditions. 
> 
> I’d be very surprised if the French ever call them _des guillotines_. Neil is making a joke.
> 
> The introduction of the use of gloves during surgery is credited to William Stewart Halsted of Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland.* Originally, they were to protect the hands the surgical staff from the harsh disinfectants used during procedures. By the early 1900s it was standard procedure for surgeons to wear sterile rubber gloves.
> 
> (Neil would at this point also have known to wear a mask during surgery; however, cloth masks are harder to re-sterilize than rubber gloves, and unlike rubber gloves lose efficiency when wet. Neil doesn't have access to the medical stores he would have expected at a hospital in peace time. Like the morphine, he's probably attempting to "save" whatever he's using to cover his nose and mouth for surgeries and symptoms that he thinks they'd be most needed. Also, this way Andrew can admire his face.)
> 
> *!!!


	3. Lie-Factory

* * *

**lie-factory** **/ lī** **ˈfæk tə ri, -tri / _n._** German propaganda.

* * *

  
Things came to a head as they usually did: accidentally.  
  
Wymack had been pressing Andrew for more salient details than the spread of Nicky’s gangrene, so on his next foray Andrew bit the not-so-proverbial bullet and settled himself in the downstairs parlor, which seemed to exist as the closest thing to a common room. The men retired there when they had nowhere else to go, and were well enough to stand it. Or sit it.  
  
He sat next to Nicky’s Kraut—Erik—because he at least had a better chance of predicting Erik’s movements if Erik decided to stab him. Nicky said something of the like when waving goodbye—there were a few pairs of crutches that the men passed around, but Nicky was not steady on them yet, so Abby was helping him to the toilet. It promised to be a lengthy affair. Surprisingly the jokes were kindly. Andrew had realized quickly that all the men held a deep respect, even devotion, to Neil’s mother. He’d once seen two of them come to blows when a language barrier had made each man think the other was calling her ugly. The sight of two bedridden invalids attempting to beat each other to a pulp had sparked Andrew’s amusement for many a following night.  
  
Andrew himself didn’t get it. But then, he’d never made a habit of trusting women just because they were so. Especially those of Abby’s age.  
  
Erik inclined his head to listen to the one-armed French poilu chatting blithely next to him. Andrew pretended to sip at the weak-smelling tea Abby had pressed into his hands, the teacup chipped and missing its handle but still passable. He looked around and tried not to visibly gape at the unselfconscious mixing of soldiers.  
  
A Scotsman and a German were playing checkers across from him, joking amicably in two different languages. In the next bed, another German was patiently showing a Frenchman who’d had his head knocked the pages of a book, helping him sound out the letters. The book was a particularly ribald one Andrew had seen around the French bunks. A British Colonial in a turban and a soldier with an Austro-Hungarian Mannlicher rifle leaning against his chair were sharing back and forth a measure of medicinal wine.  
  
The camaraderie made his teeth itch. Andrew turned to Erik. “What’s it like to want to die for your country?”  
  
A few more times here, and Andrew’s German would be practically fluent.  
  
He had hoped to throw off the German’s comfort, but Erik had the audacity to look pleased Andrew was speaking to him. “Ah, I did not think you were of that sort.”  
  
Andrew shrugged, though Erik couldn’t see it. There was national pride enough in the Allied ranks, but Andrew had enlisted because of Aaron, and had never pretended otherwise. He’d been a British citizen for but three years before that, and been in the country for four; Tilda had taken only one illegitimate child back with her to Mother England. Maybe one was easier to swallow than two.  
  
If it hadn’t been for the letter when he was sixteen, Andrew might never have known. But Luther Hemmick had written him about his daughter’s opium-steeped confession, and enclosed money for a ticket. Luther and his wife Maria been suspiciously welcoming, even had a room set up for him and offered to pay his entrance to Oxford. Six months in Andrew had managed to sneak after Aaron going out one night and found his twin ducking into the kind of bar a man like Aaron wasn’t supposed to know about, and speaking to a bartender with Luther’s forehead and Maria’s dark skin. After that Andrew had decided he didn’t particularly want to go to Oxford after all. He’d never been good at polite society.  
  
“It is difficult to explain to someone who doesn’t know,” Erik said thoughtfully. Andrew was already bored of this conversation, but he supposed this might be the kind of thing Wymack was interested in. If Erik could give them some insight into a German weakness, then he could give Wymack a good enough report to excuse Andrew coming back despite Andrew’s continued failure to discover how Doctor Josten kept finding so many men.  
  
Andrew admitted to himself he hadn’t been trying very hard. It didn’t seem to him a particular threat, saving lives.  
  
He shook out a cigarette and stuck it between Erik’s fingers. Erik grinned. “Not that kind of difficult. But thank you. Henri…?”  
  
The Frenchman who had been speaking to him leaned forward with a light. A few other men piped up for a cig themselves, and Andrew glared around at all of them. He had little enough coaxing in him already.  
  
He'd seen Erik light his own cigarettes before, always expecting the man to set his fingers alight. Maybe the motion was so ingrained it didn’t take much figuring. As if sensing the timbre of his thoughts Erik gave Andrew a shameless smile. Andrew decided not to tell this Henri he was being had, and to figure out how long Erik could keep him hopping to.  
  
“Think about the world of a child,” Erik said, when he’d taken a few long pulls of tobacco and leaned back in his chair. “What do you know? Your name. Your house. Your parents.”  
  
“Not necessarily.”  
  
Erik acknowledged that with a tilt of his head. “Still. How do you know these things are yours? Your name is your name because there are other people who have different names. Your house is your house because there are other people who live in different houses. Your parents. . . you understand the point. These things are precious because they are yours, and you know them, and to be in a friend’s house or to be called by another’s name is strange and unwanted.”  
  
“Regular farm boy philosopher,” Henri said, but not meanly. He nudged Erik’s shoulder.  
  
“Just left alone by myself a lot,” Erik protested. “If I didn’t start thinking, I’d have no company. Anyway. You have these things which are yours, and they are good, because of it. Now imagine all around you people are talking about this thing that is country, and who we are—and you are one of we—and how this outside _they_ have strange ways that are not our own. And you think of your name and your house and your parents, and you think, these are precious to me, because they are mine. And they are what is true and right, because they are mine. And I want to keep them.”  
  
Andrew did not understand, not fully, but he could feel an echo in himself when he thought of his cousin, his brother, of Kevin and Jean, those who were his to take care of. He would kill for them: had. If that was what normal countrymen felt for their country, how could anyone hope to win in this war? They would keep fighting until they died. Andrew knew it to be true, because he knew what he would do for his own.  
  
Erik’s eyebrows were drawn to a point. “I’m not explaining it well. It’s a feeling, but one where the most important part is the other people who feel it too. I am German in the same way I am a man. It is integral to myself. Germany is my father and my mother, and my house and my name. It is the best of each. I cannot know how to be else.” He dropped his chin to his chest, thinking.  
  
"Hey, Herr Klose," the Scotsman called from the other end of the room. He pronounced _Herr_ like _Hair._ "You know your boy's Mexican, right?"

Erik's forehead wrinkled. It was strange to see expressions over eyes that stared blankly. "My. . . boy?"  
  
"The—” the Scotsman met Andrew's eye and changed what he was going to say. "The one who bunks with you. Hemmick."  
  
"Nicholas? I don’t think he’s my boy. He told me he’s twenty-eight?"

Henri hid a smile behind his hand. Andrew made a note to watch Erik more closely. Nicky had a habit of running into things too quickly for his own good.  
  
"Anyway," the Scotsman said, puffing his mustache out of his mouth. "How's your fatherland treat people who ain't look like your pale Germanic ass?”  
  
Erik frowned. "I don't think that would be much of a problem. I mean, I've never thought about it. Most of the people I met before this were cattle."  
  
"Maybe you ought to give it a head-scratch," the Scotsman said with the air of grandfatherly advice.  
  
His checkers partner leaned across the table and punched him in the arm. “What about your country, _ja_? Regular peace in the streets?”  
  
“Ah, fuck you and your mother. _Alba gu bràth!_ ”

“I’ll agree with you,” Henri said, clapping Erik on the shoulder as the board game disintegrated into squabbling. “Except for pointing out that France is the best of all countries, and I’ll be thankful when your countrymen realize it.”  
  
Erik’s face went stormy. Watching, Andrew expected him to shake Henri’s hand off and come to blows. Rather disappointingly, he regained control a moment later. His laugh was forced, but certainly more amicable than a fist to the face.  
  
“And really,” Erik said, in a lighter tone. “It took a Polish doctor to get me up and smoking again, so who am I to judge?”  
  
Andrew went cold.  
  
“Doctor Josten is German,” he said.  
  
“Maybe to an Englishman it sounds that way. But his accent is too, round? How to explain it? Hey, Niklas,” he said, raising his voice. The Kraut holding the pornography looked up. “Doctor Josten is Polish, yes?”  
  
“Definitely. You can hear it in the vowels—they’re too far to the back of his mouth. We Germans speak up against our teeth, like so.” Niklas _tsk_ ed his tongue to demonstrate. He looked ready to continue until his bedmate insistently shoved the book back in his face, and he subsided back to his teacherly duties once more.  
  
“Language scholar,” Erik said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “We cannot get him to shut up about this most days. You’re lucky I started him off for you—what is it?”  
  
Andrew had stood. He put his cigarette out on the seat of the rickety chair, pressing down hard. “Excuse me.”  
  
The door to the kitchen was cheap wood, warped, and it stuck. Andrew kicked it open and it swung wildly, banging shut behind him. Neil was scrubbing down the table. Andrew was on him in an instant.

Neil swore in three different languages and wiggled wildly to get free, jogging the table with his hip. He was a fighter, and he caught Andrew’s arm with his nails, but Andrew had been in combat and he had Neil on the floor with his legs pinned in a matter of moments.  
  
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”  
  
“What else have you lied about?”  
  
Neil bucked his hips, trying to throw Andrew off. Andrew seized him by the hair and slammed his head into the floor with a satisfying crack. Neil’s eyes went glassy. While they cleared Andrew trapped his wrists above his head and flicked the tip of the knife he’d kept up against Neil’s throat. Neil stilled.  
  
“So you can be smart sometimes,” Andrew said.  
  
Neil spat in his face. “I went to medical school, you shitbrained bastard.” He tried to bite at Andrew’s nose. Andrew let him feel the knife a little bit sharper.  
  
There was a knock on the door.  
  
Neil’s spittle was sliding down Andrew’s cheek. Both of them were frozen in place, inches from each other’s eyes. Andrew’s own harsh breathing seemed to echo.  
  
“Avram?” came a female voice.  
  
Andrew tightened his hold on Neil’s wrists. “Tell her to go away.”  
  
Neil didn’t look happy about that suggestion. “I’m fine,” he said in German, raising his voice. “Dropped something. I’m embarrassed. Let me clean it up by myself.”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“I scraped my elbow,” Neil invented wildly, or maybe he didn’t. Andrew flicked his eyes up to check and Neil tensed like he was going to try to get away again, so Andrew saved that for later and focused on keeping him down. “Not bad, but I don’t want to bleed on the patients. Would it be too much to ask if you could do James’—”  
  
“Dressings, don’t worry,” Abby replied. She sounded less suspicious and more fond. “Be more careful, Avram. Always rushing around.” She added something in that other language. Andrew listened intently to the sound of her footsteps walking away.  
  
Neil shifted, and Andrew’s attention snapped back to him. “Don’t try it,” he warned, applying pressure where he had his ankle hooked around one of Neil’s legs. “You’re going to stay right here, and you’re going to tell me the truth.”  
  
“About what?”  
  
“Oh, you’re not German, for one. Was that medical license even yours?”  
  
Neil thought it over. Andrew kept his eyes on the doctor’s, trying to project that he wasn’t going to leave until he had his answers. When Neil sagged, Andrew knew he’d got him.  
  
“The license is true,” Neil said. “I spent most of my life in Germany. My parents are Polish.”  
  
A vicious satisfaction kindled in Andrew’s stomach. It was so savage it almost covered the familiar feeling of betrayal. “Go on.”  
  
Neil swallowed. He seemed to want to look away, but Andrew didn’t let him. “My mother wanted to get out of Poland, and my _father_ ,” he spat the word, “had secured a position in Germany and was looking for a wife from the home country before he left. He was in such a hurry he didn’t care which God she worshiped. My mother agreed immediately. It’s a lot easier for people like my mother, like me, in Germany. She didn’t find out until later that he was a sadistic bastard.”  
  
“Good job, to support a new wife and to send a son to medical school. A little something on the side, perhaps?”  
  
Neil flexed his hands against the floorboards. Andrew could feel the tendons in his wrists clench. “I’ve showed you my certifications. I’m going to need a little more from you if you want to get personal.”  
  
Andrew laid the flat of the blade against Neil’s neck. The metal would be warm from being kept against Andrew’s skin, but still cooler than a pulse. “So quick to forget that I can kill you, right here.”  
  
“Then do it.” Neil’s eyes were blazing. “What do you think’s going to happen? They’ll find my body and you over it. You’ll get brought before the military court. Not a pleasant experience, so I’ve heard. But of course, you’ll probably die out in the fields before that happens. So my mother doesn’t have to do anything at all.”  
  
Andrew gritted his teeth. Wymack would want him back eventually. Sooner, Neil had reminded him Abby was waiting. He didn’t want to have a passel of cripples and their adopted matriarch yelling and fainting all over him. Neil’s mouth was set smugly. He knew this too.  
  
“What do you want,” Andrew growled.  
  
“A favor.”  
  
“You’re joking.”  
  
“Because I always joke with men who have knives held against my throat. I want a favor, and I want to use it when I want, for what I want.”  
  
Andrew considered. His mind rebelled at such an obvious trap, but he forced it to go back and take a look. In ordinary circumstances, what the doctor was suggesting would be ludicrous. And fairy-tale-esque. But in a war-trapped hovel in between two entrenched armies, with supply routes piecemeal at best. . . with Andrew a soldier and him a civilian. . . what could Neil ask for? Andrew was bought and paid for, as cannon fodder. There was only so much he could give.  
  
And Andrew supposed he could respect the man for showing teeth.  
  
“Not whatever,” he said. “I’ll want to listen to it before I decide, and if I do then I can tell you it’s too steep. And I’ll have my answers first. So I can judge.”  
  
They held each other’s gaze for a long moment. The floor was very cold against Andrew’s knees, Neil’s body a flame in comparison. He could feel every place they touched, and it burned.  
  
“Fine,” said Neil. “Now are we going to shake on it like men, or will you keep me pinned here like an animal?”  
  
“You’re too scrawny to make good rabbit stew,” Andrew said. Cautiously, he rolled back onto his heels and stood. He kept the knife pointed at Neil and positioned himself between Neil and the door to the rest of the house. Of the ways to go, outside would be the easiest place to chase him, and Neil would have fewer friends. Neil shot him a look that was unimpressed and stood, rolling his neck and shoulders. He extended a hand.  
  
Andrew already had the knife in his left, so he gave out his right and clasped Neil’s briefly. The doctor’s bones felt brittle under his touch, but his grip was firm.  
  
“Deal?” Neil said, insufferable.  
  
Andrew jerked his head sharply. “Deal.” The word had the weight of mixed metal on his tongue, heavy, blood-tang. He could feel it clog his throat. Neil did not know it, but Andrew did not break his promises.  
  
He could not trust another to do the same. Hence he had asked for the doctor’s explanations first.  
  
Neil walked over to the window, looking out it as if he’d forgotten Andrew was there—but Andrew saw how he kept out of arm’s reach, and how he mirrored Andrew’s movements as Andrew circled him. When it became apparent the doctor would not start talking immediately Andrew set his ass down on the table (he had to hop up a little, but would deny it if confronted). If he were being made to wait, he might as well dirty the good doctor’s sterile surface.  
  
He watched Neil’s back as he leaned forward and rested his hands on the counter, shoulder blades pinching under his shirt. He breathed out deeply. His hat had fallen off in the scuffle on the floor, and the afternoon sunlight caught the mussed blaze of his hair.  
  
Andrew was struck by how young he looked, standing there. The light softened the scars on his cheeks, filling the shadows on his face. It was a glimpse into another life, where war was distant and young men lived instead of selling their bodies to the mud. He might have been pretty, once, this Doctor Josten. Might have ordered a drink at a bar with a flirtatious wink, or hailed a cab trailing books from his arms, with no other thought but to get out of the rain. What would Andrew have thought of this other man, whom Neil was not?  
  
Had Neil even wanted to be a doctor?  
  
It was foolish. Were it not this world, this war, they would never have met. Andrew forced the lid on his fanciful thoughts. Neil Josten was an unpredictable player, and Andrew needed to figure him out or neutralize him. He shifted his grip on his knife to a throwing posture.  
  
At last the doctor shook himself and stood upright. He started taking off his gloves, quick, economical motions, still staring out at the ramshackle town outside. He began to speak.  
  
“My real name is Wesninski. My father is not a good man,” he said. “My mother knew this, when she married him, but she didn’t know how much. He’d just gotten a job in Germany working for the—working for a crime family. He was their innovator. It was his job to search the continent for new and exciting ways to kill people.”  
  
Neil’s shoulders were so taut Andrew felt a sympathetic ache in his own.  
  
“He would travel. Those were the best times, when my mother and I were alone. But soon enough he’d come back, with some new way of causing pain, or death. And I was. . . well. Why test on animals when there’s a young child there?”  
  
A slow, inevitable weight slipped to rest at the base Andrew’s spine. He would not insult Neil by disbelieving him. He knew too well the evils of men.  
  
“One of the men tried to follow up after my father had asked his questions. He found me with these.” Neil trailed a hand over the gas blisters on his arms. “He was horrified. He took me aside and offered to pay for my education, to get me out of there. I’d be younger than the other students, but he seemed to think that would only matter as far as me trying to—pursue someone, and that’s never been the kind of thing I’ve bothered with. I had learned an appreciation for medicine from tending to myself. I took his offer and never went back. My mother was furious that I’d trusted him. She was right. My father didn’t like losing his investment. After I graduated we came to the only place he wouldn’t follow.”  
  
Neil pointed out the window. His shoulder blades were trembling. Cautiously, Andrew lowered his knife. He didn’t put it away. He was not stupid: he was simply judging the situation based on what he could see. What he saw was a man too overcome with his own past to provide a real threat. At least for the moment.  
  
“The medical license says Josten,” Andrew said.  
  
Neil dipped his head in a nod. From behind, it made his head disappear, jerky, and then reappear, the curls mashed to his neck from the earlier scuffle. “It’s an easy enough change, if you have the right chemicals. Take the old ink off and add new. I’ve always been a fair hand at forgery.” He flexed his right hand. The blisters and scars on the back of it caught the light, gilded. Andrew was too well-versed in the world to feel sick. Instead, he felt a deep, unwanted, understanding.  
  
He stood and walked to Neil, stowing the knife once again. He would be able to take it out in an instant if needed, but right now it would be beside the point. Slowly, he reached out and turned Neil’s head to face him. His fingers scraped the rough red stubble. Neil’s eyes were wide, and not tearful. Far away.  
  
“If you lie to me,” Andrew said, enunciating clearly, “I will kill you. Are your credentials legitimate?”  
  
“I’m a licensed doctor of Greifswald University,” Neil said. He did not hesitate. His eyes focused on Andrew’s, and lost their hazy fear to return to their steady coolness. Andrew held him for a minute more, watching for signs of deceit, and then released him. Neil rubbed his jaw where Andrew’s fingers had been.  
  
“My commanding officer wants me to find out how you find so many wounded men,” Andrew said quietly.  
  
Neil flinched, and repressed it. “That was not part of the deal.”  
  
“I know.” Andrew held Neil’s gaze. “I’m not inclined to think doctoring is a bad thing, no matter whom it comes from. But I have orders, and if you slip up I will not hesitate to follow them.”  
  
Neil’s mouth tightened. “Understood.”  
  
With the air of dismissal that had served him well in his months as a corporal, Andrew stepped back and cracked his neck. “Let me know when you figure out what you’re asking for that favor.”  
  
“Oh, I know what I want,” Neil said.  
  
“I doubt it,” Andrew’s voice said. His brain was mainly occupied with the fact he hadn’t realized Neil had a plan. He’d thought Neil was spitballing.  
  
Neil crossed his arms. “I want to see inside your trenches.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Note:**  
>   
>  (Additional warning for this historical note: Nazis and the Holocaust)
> 
> While there has never been a safe place to be Jewish, Germany at the beginning of the 20th century was considered one of the better places to be. It was an enlightened country, full of science and innovation. In fact, conditions in neighboring Poland were by comparison so bad that a number of Jewish Poles initially welcomed the Nazis, assuming that whatever their creed they at least would not treat them as poorly as the preexisting Polish government and people.
> 
> Many Jewish Germans considered their primary characteristic to be their German-ness, rather than their Jewish-ness. Some even attempted to distance themselves from their Jewish culture, striving to be even “more” German than their gentile counterparts. One such was Dr. Fritz Haber, Nobel Prize winner and the inventor of gas warfare.
> 
> (His first wife, Clara Immerwahr, was also a Jewish German who like her husband converted to Christianity. She was a women’s rights activist and the first woman to earn a PhD in chemistry at the University of Breslau.)
> 
> Haber was proud to offer his services to Germany, quoted as saying “during peace time a scientist belongs to the World, but during war time he belongs to his country.” He was given the honorary rank of Captain by the Kaiser for his contributions during WWI. After the war he continued his experiments in poisonous gasses, inventing a hydrogen cyanide gas used as a pesticide.
> 
> Or, as it is more commonly known, Zyklon A.
> 
> Distressed at the rise of the National Socialism in Germany, and ordered to fire all his Jewish personnel, Haber resigned his directorship of the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute for Physical and Electrochemistry in 1933. He left Germany the same year, and died in 1934.
> 
> During World War II, the Nazis chose to use Zyklon B— a form of Haber’s invention—to exterminate his own people. Several members of Haber’s family were killed in concentration, labor, and death camps.


	4. Muck In

**PART II: October—November 1916**

This is the song of the mud,  
The pale yellow glistening mud that covers the hills like satin;   
The grey gleaming silvery mud that is spread like enamel over the valleys;   
The frothing, squirting, spurting, liquid mud that gurgles along the road beds;   
The thick elastic mud that is kneaded and pounded and squeezed under the hoofs of the horses;   
The invincible, inexhaustible mud of the war zone. 

This is the song of the mud, the uniform of the poilu.   
His coat is of mud, his great dragging flapping coat, that is too big for him and too heavy;   
His coat that once was blue and now is grey and stiff with the mud that cakes to it.   
This is the mud that clothes him. His trousers and boots are of mud,   
And his skin is of mud;   
And there is mud in his beard.   
His head is crowned with a helmet of mud.   
He wears it well.   
He wears it as a king wears the ermine that bores him.   
He has set a new style in clothing;   
He has introduced the chic of mud. 

This is the song of the mud that wriggles its way into battle.   
The impertinent, the intrusive, the ubiquitous, the unwelcome,   
The slimy inveterate nuisance,   
That fills the trenches,   
That mixes in with the food of the soldiers,   
That spoils the working of motors and crawls into their secret parts,   
That spreads itself over the guns,   
That sucks the guns down and holds them fast in its slimy voluminous lips,   
That has no respect for destruction and muzzles the bursting shells;   
And slowly, softly, easily,   
Soaks up the fire, the noise; soaks up the energy and the courage;   
Soaks up the power of armies;   
Soaks up the battle.   
Just soaks it up and thus stops it. 

This is the hymn of mud-the obscene, the filthy, the putrid,   
The vast liquid grave of our armies. It has drowned our men.   
Its monstrous distended belly reeks with the undigested dead.   
Our men have gone into it, sinking slowly, and struggling and slowly disappearing.   
Our fine men, our brave, strong, young men;   
Our glowing red, shouting, brawny men.   
Slowly, inch by inch, they have gone down into it,   
Into its darkness, its thickness, its silence.   
Slowly, irresistibly, it drew them down, sucked them down,   
And they were drowned in thick, bitter, heaving mud.   
Now it hides them, Oh, so many of them!   
Under its smooth glistening surface it is hiding them blandly.   
There is not a trace of them.   
There is no mark where they went down.  
The mute enormous mouth of the mud has closed over them.

This is the song of the mud,  
The beautiful glistening golden mud that covers the hills like satin;   
The mysterious gleaming silvery mud that is spread like enamel over the valleys.   
Mud, the disguise of the war zone;   
Mud, the mantle of battles;   
Mud, the smooth fluid grave of our soldiers:  
This is the song of the mud.

  
—“The Song of the Mud,” Mary Borden

* * *

**muck in /mʌk ɪn/ _phrasal v._** the arrangement in which soldiers would cook together, share rations, etc.; to share in the work

* * *

  
“Absolutely not,” Wymack said.  
  
Andrew bit the side of his tongue. Learning how to follow orders had been the worst part of training, but he had learned. It kept him from being executed for treason, so despite how much he hated it, Andrew most days could understand the use.  
  
He’d made a deal, so he had to give at least a nominal effort.  
  
“Yes, Sir,” Andrew said.  
  
He waited. One of the things he respected about Wymack was he wasn’t a dumbshit. He’d listen to his men if there was something worth listening to. Wymack went back to the papers on his desk—well, the bit of rotten planking he’d scraped the worst of the mud off and had perched on his knees, he’d caved and started using his own bunk as his “office” so at least there was a moment of relative quiet-- and scribbled through five of them before he snapped and looked back up.  
  
“Out with it,” he growled.  
  
Andrew, who knew by now that Wymack growled but seldom bit, cleared his throat. “He’s a doctor, Sir. We’ve few enough of those. Even if it’s for a few hours, he could be a help.”  
  
Wymack paused. Andrew saw his eyes track back and forth, thinking. They had one surgeon they shared between two battalions, a droop-faced man named Higgins. There had been five nurses before one had turned up pregnant and had left with the wounded back to the base. Passing up an able doctor was a hard call in times such as these.  
  
“We’ve not supplies to share,” Wymack said. He sounded dismissive, but Andrew knew him. He waited him out.  
  
Andrew had a lot of patience when it was something important. Doctor Neil Josten might not be particularly important in of himself, but a deal was a promise was a deal, and Andrew did not break those.  
  
Wymack sighed. “Dammit, Minyard,” he said, and Andrew knew that he had won.

  
  
  
Neil did not balk at the hole in the ground, or the journey through the darkness, following Matt’s silent footsteps with a hand on each other’s shoulder. He was wearing knit wool mittens, blue with an orange stripe. They got damp quickly, but that little moment of kindness, of family, made Andrew need to look away. The weight of them on Andrew’s shoulder was impossibly light, but the sense of Neil behind him, short breaths, the body-knowledge of another person, made Andrew’s skin hypersensitive. He’d gotten used to other soldiers, mostly. Neil was still new.

He dropped his own hand from Matt’s shoulder as they emerged into semi-open air, using it to shade his eyes from the weak sun. There was a little of it, today, filtering through the clouds, even some cheesecloth blue between wisps of white. Andrew stretched his back, cramped—even he had to crouch, in these tunnels—and arched his neck from side to side. When he turned around he found Neil watching.  
  
“Welcome to shit palace,” Andrew said, sweeping out a hand. “Thinking of buying a property?”  
  
Matt chuckled.  
  
Neil’s face was impassive. Andrew quashed the conflicting respect and annoyance. There would be fodder enough to horrify the doctor. Speaking of: two rats, gorged on trench leavings, chased each other across in front of them, disappearing around a zagged corner. Andrew aimed a kick that didn’t connect. He hadn’t expected it to. It was the principle of the thing.  
  
“Rats aren’t bad, cooked,” Neil said.  
  
Andrew refused to rise to the bait. “They are when the fat’s from your fellow soldiers. Ask Boyd where his father is.”  
  
“Fuck you, Minyard,” Matt said with casual ease. The barb had lost its bite since they’d learned Matt’s father hadn’t died, but had instead deserted, and was if Matt’s guess was good hiding from military justice across the Atlantic. “He was a rat bastard himself, anyway.”  
  
Neil’s eyebrows went up. He gave Matt a longer look, calculating. Andrew dug in his pockets for a cigarette to keep from giving in to the inexplicable desire to kick Matt as well.

Wymack had to see Neil first, officially, but life in the trenches was either bloody or boring, so they gathered a gaggle of on-lookers as they made their way to the reserve and then down into the barracks. There were questions; shouting; cat-calls, some suggestions as to the nature of Andrew and this newcomer’s relationship. Andrew ignored them. He’d heard them all before. Matt punched one or two of them in painful places as they passed, which was pointless but Andrew rather appreciated.  
  
Matt had been a boxer, back in London. He was good at punching.  
  
Behind him—the trenches were too narrow for two to walk abreast here, but Andrew checked obsessively over his shoulder—Neil closed tighter and tighter into himself, until he was a hunched coil of nerves and shuffling. Andrew rolled his eyes and grabbed him by the arm.  
  
“Either stand up straight or you’ll get eaten alive. I thought you had pride.”  
  
Neil said something in French that made some of the blue-coated onlookers laugh. Andrew glared. Stupid language. You couldn’t tell what was insult and what was sweeter talk from the sound. It all sounded like romancing. He shoved Neil so he fell against the mud and kept walking. When he looked back again, Neil was walking upright.

He found Wymack napping in a dugout. Andrew swung his helmet into a support beam, creating a tremendous clang- _thump_ , and Wymack opened his eyes. The first words out of his mouth were not what Luther Hemmick would call “appropriate for polite society.”  
  
Andrew saluted. “Sir.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Wymack said. He rubbed his forehead. “This your doctor?”  
  
“Yes, Sir.”  
  
“Really? Because he looks a helluva lot like Private Boyd.”  
  
Andrew jerked his head sharply; Neil had disappeared. He and Matt hurried outside, Matt shouting, and found Neil examining a break in the A-frame against the nearest trench wall. Andrew grabbed him unceremoniously by the back of the collar and dragged him into the dugout.  
  
“Here. Sir,” he said, shaking Neil slightly. Neil didn’t have the grace to look sheepish. If anything, he looked petulant. He and Wymack looked each other up and down, like a feral cat staring contest. Andrew admitted grudgingly that Neil Josten had a heavy pair of balls.  
  
“Corporal Minyard is telling me I should let you see our wounded,” Wymack said eventually, crossing his arms. “Is there a reason why I shouldn’t?”  
  
“I’m surprised you’d trust me to tell you if there were.”  
  
“I wouldn’t,” Wymack confirmed. His eyes flicked to Neil’s medical bag, slung over his shoulder and held protectively against his side. “You’re going to have a watch on you at all times. If you even think of doing something that’s not medicine, that man will have standing orders to shoot you. Are we understood?"  
  
Andrew tried to make out Neil's expression from the corner of his eye, but Neil's hat had his face in shadow again. "Yes, Sir," Neil said.  
  
Wymack nodded. "Good. Corporal Minyard, you're to accompany Doctor Josten to the aid center and keep him in your sight. Shoot him if he starts looking funny, but not before."  
  
"Yessir," Andrew said.  
  
"You're dismissed. And may I say, son," he added, as Andrew clicked his heels and Neil turned to go, "if you don't turn out to be a dastardly German plot, I'm glad you're here. You're sorely needed."  
  
  
  


The aid center was a cramped hole back behind the artillery line, far enough underground to offer protection against falling shells. Here Andrew saw the first sign of Neil's surprise. He paused before ducking under the narrow doorway, frowning at the muddy ground.  
  
"This is what you call a hospital," he said flatly.  
  
"No." Andrew pointed up at the dirty boards overhead. "That'd be back at the base, far the fuck away in It Doesn't Matter, Because We'll Never Go There. This is where we come to tend our minor ouches. Or to wait for the ambulance unit and try not to die."  
  
The frown on Neil's face grew by degrees. Andrew had the incongruous urge to whistle. He bowed and waved Neil through the mud-packed doorway. "After you, medicine man."

Bee was wrapping a man's arm by the door. She looked up when the two of them came in. "Ah! You must be the young doctor. Mister Minyard! It’s nice to see you when you aren’t bleeding. How is the tooth?"  
  
"Gone," Andrew said. He’d had had a tooth pulled the last time he'd been back here. It had not been a pleasant experience, but if he examined it he knew that the reason he'd allowed someone that close to his mouth without biting them was because Bee was the only medical professional who had never, not once, touched Andrew without permission. That he had to come to a hellhole war to find her did not escape him. Andrew wondered if that was irony.  
  
(He didn't usually long for a formal college education, but occasionally he got tripped up by issues like these. Well, it didn't matter. He didn't write for anyone but himself. So if _he_ thought it was irony, that was all that mattered.)  
  
He tried to think if Neil had ever touched him without asking. The only thing that came to mind was their scuffle in the kitchen.  
  
Men were packed beam-to-elbow in the cramped space, resting on rickety benches built out of the wall or standing and waiting, with varying degrees of patience, for treatment. Andrew overheard one man telling his bench-mate sheepishly about overturning a tin cup soup pot. Another had his hands clapped over a sensitive area. Coughing and feverish sweating were everywhere. For every Tommy the enemy killed, twelve more tapped out due to disease or sheer clumsy stupidity. Andrew held his breath as they pressed in around him, shuffling, stinking, breathing so close he could taste the rot on their lungs. At least in the upper trenches he could see a bit of sky.  
  
Doctor Higgins was among the rows of beds, where men awaiting transfer to the base hospital were kept. “Beds” was generous. Most men lay on stretchers on the dirty ground. The few cots the king had finally seen fit to send out were coveted dearly. Higgins greeted Neil with an air of desperation. Since that was the general air around the overworked doctor, Andrew wasn't bothered.  
  
"We're waiting on the supply train for more morphine," Higgins said after bare courtesies. "It'd be a help if you could hold the Sergeant here down a mite."  
  
"Do you have a way for me to wash my hands?" Neil asked, already rolling up his sleeves.

  
  
Neil and Higgins worked in near-silence, save for an instruction here, a question to the patient there. The murmur and groaning of the soldiers around them filled in the spaces. Andrew watched them, smoking, following behind Neil from bed to bed as if tied to him with a tether. He watched Neil cut and clean and sew, soak rags in Dakin's and boiled water, prod flesh so burned or shredded there didn't seem hope of a living human underneath. Two of the men had died by the time one of the doctors got to them. Higgins covered their faces with their coats, murmuring a short prayer, and he and Betsy carried them to a pile on the side, ghastly in its cold utility. Andrew used his post guarding Neil as an excuse not to help. He hadn't known those dead men, and he didn't care to carry them. They looked shrunken under their coats, as if dying had stripped them of substance along with vitality.  
  
Around the third or fourth man Andrew realized that Neil was good at this. He'd known before: he'd not have trusted Nicky to him otherwise, and he'd seen firsthand—both hands—his grace in surgery. Neil's bedside manner remained atrocious, but his hands moved without flourish or uncertainty, piecing together men in a way that would hold until they could be moved to more complete medical care. His face was intent, utterly focused and yet with that serenity that Andrew remembered from watching Matt before an inter-platoon boxing match, or, far earlier, the old woman who sold the best pastries in San Francisco from a tiny dilapidated storefront on Grant Avenue. It was the look of a person in his element. When Neil levered his shoulder to set a dislocated hip, arms flexing, Andrew even saw him pleased. Neil patted his loudly swearing patient on the tender leg and moved to the next cot with an air of satisfaction.  
  
Andrew moved in front of Neil so Neil would be forced to look at him. "You like this," he accused.  
  
Neil scoffed. "Being in a hole in the ground? Hardly."  
  
"Not that. Surgery," Andrew pointed to the soldier between them. "Medicine. You're actually having fun."  
  
"Glad to be of service," the soldier joked weakly. They both ignored him. Neil began unwinding the bandage around his waist.  
  
"Not fun," Neil said. "Even I'm not sick enough to, oh, shoot and stab people to solve an argument." He gave Andrew's uniform a significant look. "But there's a way bodies are meant to fit together, and a set of rules for making them do that again. Everyone's different, but _usually_ you can figure out what to do. And you get a living person out at the end of it." He bent his head close to the gash in the soldier's abdomen and sniffed, and then lifted his head and shouted at Higgins.  
  
"What are you doing for onion soup?"  
  
"Pretending it came back negative," Higgins shouted back, tone, as usual, harried. Neil sighed quietly (Andrew watched in amusement as the soldier's eyes widened in fright) and cleaned the wound, changing the bandages close to the skin. "You'll be fine," he assured the man as an afterthought when he had rebandaged him. "And you know, because I don't say that unless it's true."  
  
The man relaxed. Neil's detached manner sold it well. He didn't seem the type to give false sympathies. As they moved on Andrew pressed close to Neil to speak in his ear.  
  
"That was a lie."  
  
"Probably," Neil replied. "If he were in a proper hospital, I'd give his chances eighty, ninety percent. But you get infected as soon as breathe in a place like this.” He nudged a shoe in the underlying mud in disgust.  
  
"Tetanus shots are all the rage."  
  
"It defeats the purpose if you get sick from the dirty needle."  
  
There was a warm burn in Andrew's chest, soft like taffy, at Neil's distaste. All the men knew that conditions were awful. Showing it to an outsider, having him acknowledge it, fed a satisfaction that crouched deep over Andrew's guts. "You should see the poor bastards in the saps," he said. "There's no way to get supplies out there quiet and fast after a cave-in or a stabbing. Some of the things Renee's told me. . ." He let Neil's imagination linger.  
  
"Renee?"  
  
Andrew kicked himself mentally. He hadn't asked Renee's permission for that, yet. "Someone who knows. Aren't you here for a reason, doctor?"  
  
Now that he had a direction, Andrew could see it. When Andrew saw a wounded man, he saw the man; Neil saw the wound. Andrew saw Sergeant, Private, brother; Neil saw gangrene, laceration, burn. That must be how doctors had to think. Andrew would either care too much, or not at all.  
  
The next man had shat himself. Neil cleaned him with clinical detachment and felt his forehead. The man’s eyes moved underneath closed lids, his face sweaty. Neil pinched a bit of his skin between thumb and forefinger. His face was blank. He did not look satisfied.  
  
When he stood he said to Andrew in an undertone, “That one needs an IV, sooner rather than later. He’s too dehydrated to last much longer.”  
  
“Is this a thing now? I’m getting a blow-by-blow of your patients?”  
  
Neil made a gesture so rude that some of the soldiers behind him whooped and clapped in appreciation. Andrew made another back and showed it first to Neil and then around to the rest of them. He trailed Neil over to Doctor Higgins.  
  
“I want permission to take two of these men back with me,” Neil said.  
  
Doctor Higgins scrubbed his forehead with the back of his wrists. His fingers were crusted with something Andrew figured was more disgusting than it looked. “Which ones?”  
  
Neil covertly tilted his chin towards the man with the gut wound and the one who had messed himself.  
  
Higgins sighed. “That’d have to go through the brass. Or Wymack, at least.”  
  
The purse of Neil’s lips was displeased. “Those two won’t survive without a clean and stocked hospital.”  
  
“And I’ve another one that will die before the day is out. You’re a doctor as well as I am. You know, like I do, that none of these boys belong here. They should all be far away in soft clean beds, with plenty of pretty nurses around them to boost their spirits.” He seemed to notice Andrew, then, and fixed him a look over Neil’s shoulder. “This the doctor who took in your cousin?”  
  
Andrew nodded.  
  
“Good man.” Higgins made a gesture that indicated he would shake Neil’s hand if they weren’t both covered in bodily fluids. “You can see about Wymack letting you take those men, and Alex—the one with the perforated bowel,” he clarified, at Neil’s confusion. “But don’t hold out hope. His hands are tied.”  
  
Neil shrugged.

Higgins glanced again at Andrew, like he was expecting Andrew to try to talk Neil out of going head-to-head with Wymack. Andrew probably should, but he wanted to see Neil try. Wymack wasn’t hard to convince of things if you knew how. But a jabbermouth like Neil? That would be entertaining.  
  
Bee extricated a promise from Andrew as they left to keep her updated on the progress of his missing tooth. Neil side-eyed him mightily when he acquiesced.  
  
“I don’t like her,” he said when they were out in the communication trench again. He didn’t bother to lower his voice.

“Your opinion is noted,” Andrew said.

The call went up when Andrew was watching Neil struggle over some broken boards, waiting to see how long it would take him to ask for help. “Dogfight, boys! Come see!”  
  
“Shouldn’t we be getting underground?” Neil complained, as Andrew gave in and braced his shoulder under Neil’s to help him lever his feet out of the splintered wood. “It can’t be safe to be out in the open when _die—die Flugzeuge—les avions_ —“  
  
“Probably,” Andrew allowed. Something heavy in Neil’s medical bag jogged his hip. He grunted and shoved Neil the last yard to easier footing. “But where’s the fun in that?”  
  
“I didn’t think you liked fun,” Neil said. Sassy bastard. Andrew grabbed him by the collar again and tugged Neil after him—it was a good handle for making Neil go where he wanted him to.  
  
He found Jean with his head tipped back near the latrine and stole his binoculars. “Nice spot,” he said.  
  
Jean rolled his eyes. “Figured nobody else would be here. You know how Kevin is.” He held his hand out for the binoculars back. Andrew flicked the focus gauge with his middle finger and squinted through them until he found the forming swirl of fighter planes. As he watched, one of the bulls-eye-painted birds went down, spinning wildly as its pilot dealt with being suddenly dead. But there were newcomers coming in from the West.  
  
“Kevin?” Neil asked. “He came with you, that first time.”  
  
“Pilot fanboy,” Jean said with put-upon disgust. It was a good cover. Andrew was one of the few who could see through it. “Sometimes I tell him to just go back and get his flight cert. See if he likes his chances in the sky.”  
  
The average life expectancy for a new pilot was approximately two weeks.

Two planes collided in a burst of smoke and spinning propellers. A gas tank exploded in a gout of flame. Behind the zag down the trench Andrew heard somebody whistle.  
  
“Can’t they bomb us?” Neil’s voice was even, but his hands twisted the strap of his bag.  
  
“Stop twitching,” Andrew said. He shoved the binoculars at Neil until Neil took them. “They’re too far away still. If they start getting closer then we’ll hit the dirt.”  
  
“Those aren’t bombers, anyway,” Kevin said, announcing his presence. He was out of breath. “They’re far too small. I can see why you’re confused, though. This is the first time we’ve seen that new Bristol Fighter I’ve been reading about in the papers, and the two seats—”  
  
Andrew made a loud farting noise.  
  
“What took you so long?” Jean said. He procured another pair of binoculars from inside his coat and handed them to Kevin. Andrew tuned out Kevin’s explanation, and then saw that somewhere along the way he’d picked up Renee. Andrew tilted his chin in greeting and went back to squinting at the column of planes. Another one spiraled to the ground. Instantly a German Taube swung into its place. Loud booing arose from the trenches. Andrew could hear the Krauts cheering across No Man’s Land.

It was bloody entertainment, this. But what else mattered in war?  
  
Neil tore Andrew’s gaze away from the increasingly devastating aerial fight by edging carefully into his space. He was so careful about not brushing against Andrew that it caught his attention. Andrew turned, sharp words on his tongue, and saw Neil eyeing Renee up and down warily.  
  
She smiled at him. “You’re Andrew’s doctor.”  
  
“Who are you?” Neil said rudely.  
  
She must be just off rotation. With the weak sunlight she hadn’t bothered to put her tunic on, and her shirt showed clearly the strength in her arms. Andrew had stopped being afraid of muscle when he’d started putting it on himself, but all the tunnellers had impressive strength. It wasn’t uncommon to see men after they’d had a few try to goad a tunneller into lifting heavy bits of equipment or even a few of their fellows as a bet. Andrew could understand Neil’s reluctance.  
  
Renee was watching Neil nearly as closely, though her smile hadn’t disappeared. She tilted her head. “I think,” she said slowly, “that to you I shall be Renee.”  
  
Neil’s eyes widened. “I—Neil. Neil Josten. Doctor.”  
  
An ear-splitting whoop went up; Andrew turned back to the dogfight and saw that a gold-and-red biplane he was (unfortunately) well-acquainted with had joined the fray. Kevin looked ready to shit himself in excitement. He wasn’t the only one. The Huns had their Red Baron, but the Allies had their own golden Achilles in the form of Jeremy Knox.  
  
“Look, it’s your flying prince,” Jean drawled. Kevin elbowed him, clutching the binoculars tighter. He strained up on his tiptoes, bottom lip sucked between his teeth.  
  
“Kevin’s rather fond of Captain Knox,” Renee said in a loud whisper to Neil.  
  
Neil’s look of confusion was so complete it was violent. “Have they even met?”  
  
“Only in Kevin’s dreams.”  
  
“So he wants to watch him die?”  
  
Andrew started coughing to get rid of the sudden tickle in his throat. Renee made pointed shapes with her eyebrows at him. He made pointed shapes back.  
  
“Shut up, shut up,” Kevin said, insensate to the ribbing beside him. “Look at—he’s going to—”  
  
The gold aeroplane did a wide arc into a loop-de-loop, coming around to fire. The German plane that had been pursuing it juttered and fell. Cheers and groans went up from the respective sides. Kevin jumped up and down and trod on Andrew’s foot. The only reason Andrew didn’t kick him in the crotch was because he’d tried it before and it hadn’t worked.  
  
Dogfights were seldom extended affairs. Soon enough, there were enough wrecked planes on the ground that the Germans decided to withdraw. Jeremy Knox and the scraggle of remaining Allied aircraft rose triumphantly and banked back West. Kevin gave a sigh that would not have been out of place from a damsel in a stage drama and began breaking down the fight to Jean, hands gesturing widely. Jean listened, a tiny smile touching the corner of his mouth.  
  
“That’s what you get, you maggoty squareheaded sons of sisterfuckers!” someone shouted. Probably Singing Bob, who possessed lungs like a dreadnought’s foghorn. An unintelligible but distinctly German-sounding shout was returned. Not for the first time Andrew considered what strange sport he was privy to, these days.  
  


* * *

  
Neil convinced Wymack to give him the wounded men. Andrew had no idea how. It made him angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Note:**
> 
> Aerial dogfights captured the minds and hearts of the public during World War One, and continue to do so to this day. Though they were bloody, terrifying ordeals with little to no protection and flown on still-developing craft, the idea of the dashing flying ace was planted in the international consciousness. The Air Force had one of, if not the, highest mortality rate of any branch.
> 
> Jeremy is probably flying a Sopwith Pup, an agile single-seater British biplane with a wooden framework. His opponents might be flying Fokker Eindecker aircraft. This model was a monoplane (as the name describes) that pioneered the propeller-synchronized machine gun, which allowed the pilot to shoot a machine gun down their line of sight without hitting their own front propeller. Though this craft provided the Germans with a significant advantage, after a dogfight the ground would certainly have been strewn with several dirty, muddy Fokkers.


	5. Perisher

* * *

**perisher** **/ˈper.ɪ.ʃə r/** **_n_** _._ the periscope soldiers used to look over the top of the trench wall, it being dangerous to risk one’s entire head there.

* * *

  
On the third day after Andrew spent far too many hours struggling through Renee’s tunnel with three practically-corpses to carry, two things of note happened.

The first was a new shipment of cigarettes. The trench was always in need of three things: tobacco, lumber, and trained servicemen. The stack of half-moldy boards was underwhelming, and the men that came with it were, Andrew heard Wymack say, so green they might as well start sprouting daisies, but the bulk of the cargo came in the form of paper cartons. There were enough that every man got a pack, even with the five extras Andrew pilfered and stashed in various places in his uniform.  
  
The second was he woke up hard and straining at his underwear.  
  
Andrew squelched the gasp in his throat and listened furiously to tell if anyone had heard. Aaron snored in his bunk, the hitching snores that meant he was actually asleep and not the louder, obnoxious snores of him pretending. Kevin and Jean spoke in murmurs, probably post-fuck themselves. If they’d heard anything, they at least knew to keep it to themselves. Andrew forced himself to ease back onto his wadded-up-tunic pillow and covered his face with his hands, breathing heavily.  
  
Most of the dream was a fading muddle, but the image of Neil Josten on his knees, mouth wet and striped with come, was unfortunately needlepoint clear. Andrew hadn’t had a dream of that nature for months. Why the _fuck_ was the break in his dry spell a liar of a doctor in the middle of Armageddon?

He wrapped a hand around himself, but he was already flagging. Frustrated, Andrew made a fist and punched up into the darkness. His knuckles brushed against a dangling spidery root, almost sending him jackknifing off the bed. If he tugged on it, maybe the whole ceiling would come down on all of them, and they’d suffocate. At least then he’d be out of his misery.  
  


* * *

  
They stood in wait.  
  
There was a mist over the hills, good for hiding. Kevin and Jean had already left to find hidden vantage points—maybe one of the few remaining scrubby trees—in No Man’s Land; Kevin had passed around his flask with a _sláinte_ and a side-eye at Andrew for how light it was. Andrew was too short to see over the tops of the sandbags lining the frontline trench, even standing on the firestep. It was more of a boon than a curse, considering what little protection British helmets gave against enemy snipers. Still, at times like these it only fed his nerves. He stared at the dirty canvas in front of him.  
  
“Fuck, I need a cigarette,” Aaron muttered beside him. Andrew grunted in agreement.  
  
“Quiet,” Wymack hissed. He was walking the duckboards up and down the line, checking to see every man was there and that kits and weapons were present. Andrew waited until he had passed and then mimed a crude gesture at his back. Normally that would have made Aaron laugh. Today he didn’t. Maybe he was distracted thinking about Katelyn.  
  
“I hate the waiting,” the man on the other side of Andrew whispered. Rhemann, his name was. He was always on about his uncle in the Navy command.  
  
“Run out there first then,” he muttered back. Rhemann shot him a sickly look that was sure of the belief Andrew was joking. Andrew wasn’t sure he was. Usually the standard meal of stone-hard biscuits and bully beef left him hungry, but today he wished he’d eaten less. His stomach churned underneath his straps and buckles. Maybe he should’ve taken another piss before reporting.  
  
_Done and done_ , he told himself sternly. _Nervousness won’t help now. If you die today then you die, so get yourself square with that these last few minutes._  
  
A terrible calm settled over his chest and shoulders, at odds with his rebelling breakfast. It became difficult to breathe. Moving his lungs was like heaving a great weight. Andrew pressed his thumb into the mud wall, right beside the corpse of some many-legged insect. He wondered how fast he would have to snap his wrist to break the thumb off.  
  
Aaron shifted his weight and grumbled about blisters.  
  
“Listen for it,” Wymack called, just barely enough to travel down the trench. Andrew dragged his sluggish neck muscles to look at him. The Sergeant-Major was squinting at the sky, and then down again at his wristwatch, which was tied on with bits of string because the strap had rotted away.  
  
A muffled boom sounded across the field. Andrew could see smoke from flames if he tilted his head back. That would be Renee’s squad, setting off underground explosives that—if they had figured correctly—would take out German machine guns. The men around him drew in breath as one, and Andrew felt the air sucked into him as well, as if they were suddenly one soldier, one set of lungs, one life.  
  
The whistle blew.  
  
“There she is,” Wymack said. He swung a hand out. “Ay! Up! Over the bags, boys, let’s go!”  
  
Andrew’s heart kicked into overdrive. He scrambled up the side of the trench, digging fingers and toes in for handholds, the rain-hardened slap of the sandbags scraping his palms and knees raw. He couldn’t stop moving; the line of soldiers surged up around him, borne on the desperation of battle orders, knowing that with the bombs starting—there was another explosion, a little bit farther down the line—the Krauts would be expecting them.

The Allies unlike the Germans laid barbed wire in squared patterns, close to the ground, so their advancing men could step over them. In theory: when your legs were as short as Andrew’s, sometimes a leap was necessary to keep from getting stuck. He ducked his head, scouting an empty stretch of ground, and jumped with both feet. Here a shellhole had disrupted the pattern. Andrew hit the ground running, knees protesting the rough landing, boots battering the rocky, stinking ground, his rifle held before him as he fought to keep it out of the way of his legs. Behind him he heard Wymack shouting at them to hurry up. A feral yell started up down the line of men, ripped from their throats like the breath had been taken in. Andrew felt it rising in his own chest, and it was ringing his teeth before he knew he had opened his mouth. There was another explosion. The _rat-tat-tat_ of a machine gun rose from far in front of him.  
  
The Germans were fighting back.  
  
There was no even ground. The mud pulled at Andrew’s feet, trying to suck him down. He had to dodge churned earth from fighting, shells, pitted rifle rounds, the bones or bodies of men they hadn’t been able to retrieve. Barbed wire was a constant threat to forward motion. If you lost concentration you could break an ankle or be stuck fast, and then be a sitting bastard for enemy gunners. There were so many men around him, a tide, rushing faster and faster to a white-tipped shore. Only the few that survived this day would have to stay here, and wait to reach it.  
  
Rhemann tripped and went down, red blooming on his chest. There was no point in stopping. He’d be dead by the time Andrew found him again among the wreckage of the ground. The fog made it difficult to see ahead. Andrew flinched instinctively, bringing his rifle up over his head, as a shell whistled pass to land behind him. The spray of dirt hit the backs of his heels. He kept running.  
  
To his left he was aware of an absence. He looked, risking a glance from the ground in front of him, and saw that Renee’s bombs had missed at least one Tommygun; down the line men were falling, cut off by the spray of bullets at the knees as they screamed. _Like mowing grass_ , Andrew had heard it called. He forced his legs faster, but now it was like all the shellholes had disappeared. There was German barbed wire ahead of him, arching high and knotted. It would force him to slow down. Andrew angled his legs down a bare decline that only marched upward again, the sides of his feet cramping. His kit thumped against his back and chest, his coat tangling up his legs. He could see his breath before him in the mist. Faster, but the spray was still coming, men still exploding in showers of red, aiming higher now as the gunman fixed his sights. Andrew could feel the bullets entering him. In his mind, they were slow, a line sinking deep and diagonally across his hips to his chest. He’d dripped hot molasses into butter, once. Like that.  
  
He knew he was about to die. He refused to close his eyes.  
  
Death didn’t come.  
  
Andrew stumbled on the edge of a shellhole, finally, and hit his knees to crawl down into it, clinging to the side to keep from the treacherous mud at the bottom. It was too easy to drown like that, pulled down by the mud as groundwater and blood from bodies filled it, until the red entered your mouth and lungs and you choked on rot. Andrew had seen it happen. He shook his ringing ears and caught the end of the cheer rising from the Allied line, slurred from a thousand tongues:  
  
“The Queen! The Queen’s on our side, boys!”  
  
It might as easily have been another sniper’s shot who had taken out the gunner, but Kevin had gained a reputation and a status among the troops. If Andrew were feeling charitable, which he never was, he’d allow it was not ill-deserved. Andrew skirted the edge of the hole before a replacement gunner could come, clinging against the slick earth that threatened to send him slipping into the bottom, and flung himself to his belly over the front edge, crawling as fast as he could to get underneath the wire. His elbows and chest scraped against the ground. There was no time to feel pain about it.  
  
There was another explosion, and another. Andrew hoped at least some of those were still Renee’s. The earth opened in front of him and a German sprang out of a sap, rifle raised. Andrew shot him in the calf and then the head when he stumbled. He pushed to get out from under the wire. If there was one there would be others, like lice. Murderous, rifle-carrying lice.  
  
The men around him swore and screamed as Germans seemed to appear out of the mist, swinging bayonets. There was no time to look for Aaron, or to spare a thought for Jean and Kevin, sequestered somewhere in the over-torn terrain around him. The noise was incomprehensible. Andrew’s ears couldn’t contain it. They caught fragments of words, gunshots, snagged at random from the encompassing fury of sound. The rush of blood in his ears was ever-present. It meant at least some of it was still inside his body.  
  
The machine guns were up again, but Andrew was in the enemy now, and he needed all his focus for his hands. He shot two men coming at him, one in the neck and one in the face, rearing back from the spray of blood even though it wouldn’t reach him. He missed the third, the German screaming and trying to lock rifles to rip Andrew’s away. If you were trapped in long engagements you were lost. Every fight had its timer counting down until a fellow or cover fire took you out. Andrew took the Kraut’s knee in his gut, jarring his teeth. He tasted blood and spat it in the German’s face, and used his distraction to let go of the rifle with one hand and stab his knife up under the German’s ribs. He wrenched his rifle away from the dead man and ducked on instinct, the path of bullets over his head burning the air.

Hell had nothing on the Western Front.  
  
He was tackled to the ground, rolling over and over as they both fought to get an upper hand. Andrew’s elbow jogged a stone, sending shooting numbness up to his shoulder and weakening his hold on his knife. He kept it—he’d been trained, once—but the other man got on top. Andrew could feel the weight of him, hot, his panting breath. He struggled. There were crumbs in the man’s beard. Andrew wondered, nonsensically, if the Germans got the same hard biscuits that they did. The man struggled to reach a blade, or a gun, and Andrew was trapped. He struggled, a deep panic oversetting him, learned from _no please stop don’t_ , and he rammed his forehead upward in panic. He felt the crunch of bone beneath his helmet and trapped the man’s legs with his own, rolling back on top. His knife was in his hand. He stabbed it down. He stabbed it again. With every wind-up it ripped free from sucking flesh. Andrew’s hand was wet with blood; blood was in his eyes. He stabbed, and stabbed, he would kill him, he’d never touch Andrew again—  
  
A shell went off behind him. Andrew rolled off the corpse, his rifle battering his head and choking him with the strap. He wheezed out the blood from his mouth and stabbed up as he stood, on the off chance that there was a Kraut about to kill him. His first swing hit air, but the second caught uniform wool. He only knew he was screaming from the ragged feeling in his throat.  
  
There was no thought. There was no passage of time, just one moment—shoot. Another—dodge. Another—stab. Take a blow. Whatever grand pattern the war had disappeared from Andrew’s mind. All he knew was kill, kill, kill to stay alive. The screaming was endless. The smell of burning flesh clogged his nostrils.

They lost.

  
They lost because of course they did. This entire war had been a shitshow for the Allied side from the beginning. Andrew crawled back into the trench as the haze of battle left him, heaving himself over the side—the new side, for the front line he’d left from had been blown up—and letting himself roll down to the bottom because he couldn’t muster the strength to get his feet under him. He lay there in the ditchwater and catalogued his hurts. Headache: expected. Bruises: aplenty. A stinging cut from a bullet across his right arm. Various cuts and scrapes. But he could move all his limbs, and when he felt at his stomach everything seemed in order.  
  
For a long indulgent moment he contemplated falling asleep right there.  
  
Andrew grit his teeth and forced himself to clamber upright, water streaming from his coat and soaking through his leg-wraps and boots. He wiped his face on the back of his sleeve, then switched sleeves when it just got grit in his eyes. He wasn’t sure if that was any better. A few other men leaned against the walls of the trench around him, gathering themselves together as Andrew had done. One of them raised a hand in a weak wave as he trudged past.  
  
After an eternity of dull tramping he found the corner of the Northumberland and Great Russell trenches, and collapsed against a strut of the wooden A-frame, using his rifle as a crutch. It might be bent. A spark of a memory showed an image of a boot coming down on it. He could check it later. Andrew wrapped the flaps of his coat around himself and settled in to wait.  
  
Jean was the first one to appear, holding his left arm gingerly at the shoulder. He nodded to Andrew and found a spot in the mud beside him, tilting his head back. He murmured a phrase in French that Andrew had gathered meant something like “well, I suppose we’re still alive,” and breathed out heavily. Andrew grunted in response.  
  
Kevin was next, coming around a zig-zag with weary, but living, steps. He clasped Andrew’s hand and managed to wedge himself between Andrew and Jean. He dropped his head to Jean’s unhurt shoulder. His face was gray, eyes sunken. He and Jean murmured back and forth to each other in French, words so quiet Andrew couldn’t have understood them even if they were in English.  
  
That was two. Another piece of Andrew’s heart could start beating.  
  
They waited.

And waited.

The survivors staggered in, greeting each other, asking after fellows who had died. There were celebrations. There were tears. Wymack clapped Kevin on the back as he went past, a wicked-looking gash up the side of his face. Higgins and Bee swarmed around, performing triage.  
  
They were still waiting.  
  
Andrew’s stomach, briefly settled by the appearance of Jean and Kevin, was again sour. Finally the edges inside him grew too much. He shoved himself up from the wall, with difficulty: his joints had stiffened. Jean looked up sharply. Kevin jolted out of a doze.  
  
“Where are you going?” Jean hissed.  
  
“To go find my brother,” Andrew snapped back. He thumped with dogged determination down the duckboards, forcing his shoulders square in a way he didn’t feel. The fear was crawling up his legs, his spine, his throat, choking him.  
  
_Not him. Not Aaron._  
  
Andrew tried to force his legs faster, but he’d done that too much today and he stumbled, falling to one knee. The weak laughter around him made his face burn. He shoved himself up and kept going, head sweeping from side to side, looking.  
  
_Not him. No. . ._

A flash of blonde caught the corner of his eye. Andrew spun in place, skidding, not daring to hope, and saw his own face deep in discussion with the quartermaster. Andrew strode forward, thrusting the man out of the way, and seized his twin by the shirtfront to shove him against the mud wall.  
  
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He spat.  
  
Aaron struggled to get free. He clipped Andrew in the face with an elbow as Andrew forced his arms to his sides, spiking Andrew's nauseous headache. “Seeing if we got any Persian rugs in.”  
  
Andrew wanted to hit him. He didn’t, only because he remembered who had hit Aaron before. He settled for lifting Aaron further up the wall. The bullet sting twinged, and his tired arms shook with the effort. “You didn’t come see me first.”  
  
“Are you my keeper?” Aaron’s glare was a mockery of what Andrew saw in the mirror. He was so angry spittle was flying from his lips, hitting Andrew in the face. “Go see if your precious doctor survived the night. Clearly you don’t need me.”  
  
Andrew’s grip weakened. Aaron slid down the trench to the duckboards, panting. Andrew stared down at him in disbelief.   
  
“That’s right,” Aaron said, at Andrew’s silence. “Everyone always said one of us was the replacement. Well I won’t let it be me. I’ll replace you first.” He heaved himself upright, staggering. Then he spat at Andrew’s feet and limped away.  
  
A low whistle sounded to Andrew’s left. A crowd had gathered, wounded men watching. Andrew swung around with a howl, fist upraised, and was caught by a strong hand. He struggled, fighting backwards, and was wrenched around to see Wymack’s face. Immediately Andrew let go. He’d learned the hard way not to strike an officer.  
  
“Get some rest, Minyard,” Wymack said.  
  
“You heard,” Andrew said lowly.  
  
Wymack’s face did not hold pity. The lines in his face deepened instead in understanding. “Get some rest,” he repeated, quieter. “That’s an order.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Note:**
> 
> Before beginning research into WWI, I had assumed that the artillery shells whence “shell-shock” got its name referred to cannonball-shaped artillery rounds that were made hollow and filled with powdered explosive. This was not correct. It will not surprise the reader that I do not know very much about guns.
> 
> By 1914, most artillery ammunition were arranged like so:
> 
> Photographs of shells (sans cartridge) cut to show the inside:


	6. Mufti

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional warnings.** this chapter contains a reference to an attack made by a goyische character upon a community of Jewish characters.

* * *

**mufti /** **ˈmʌf.ti/ _n._** civilian clothing, especially when worn by soldiers. Taken from Arabic “mufti,” meaning “free.”

* * *

  
Andrew was sporting a black mood and eye both when he made his way to Neil’s the next Friday night. Neil had left clothing for him on the back porch in a waterproof bin. Andrew dressed in his now customary pair of trousers with ill grace, shoving his feet through. He punched the railing of the deck, and then stood there picking splinters out of his knuckles and having a stern talk with himself about his attitude. At the end of it he could at least take a deep breath and not attack anything that moved. He was here for Neil, anyway. Fuck Aaron.

He had been vaguely aware of a faint thumping coming from inside. Andrew turned his attention to it and found it solidified into a rhythm, along with laughter and what sounded like it might be singing. The house had been more lit up than usual when Andrew had arrived. Had the Jostens booked a traveling troupe?  
  
Andrew swung open the door, the noise swelling around him, and crept down the hall. Abby poked her head out of what Andrew had come to think of as the mudroom. Her hands were covered in flour. Andrew stared.  
  
"Andrew! I'm glad you’re here. They're in the parlor. Avram will be happy to see you." She wiped the back of her wrist on her forehead, the same motion Higgins had done when his hands were full of blood and pus, except with flour. There was a scent of fresh bread about her. Andrew breathed it in before he could stop himself. His stomach rumbled.  
  
Feeling rather like he was walking into a dragon's den, Andrew walked down the creaking floorboards to the front room, where the sound and light were concentrated. Cots had been pushed out into the hall. Andrew had had to climb over them. When he rounded the corner he saw why.  
  
Beds, chairs, cupboards: everything that could be moved had been shoved up against the walls, overturned or stacked to fit when possible. Bedridden men were positioned sideways. Men that could move squashed five together on a cot like it was a bench, or shared spindly chairs. The space cleared in the center of the room looked shockingly naked, scratched, ancient boards showing their faces. Everyone was talking, clapping, jostling each other. An air of anticipation lay over the room, but unlike the one before an attack. This was the anticipation before a treat.  
  
Neil was near the far wall, taking a cloth to a pair of silver candlesticks laid out on a tiny table Andrew recognized as usually holding a wash basin. He was talking seriously to a man with bandages wrapped up both his arms, gesturing with his free hand. Andrew had to pause to look at him. 

For as long as Andrew had known him, Neil had cycled through the same nearly identical shirts and trousers, differentiable only by their faded stains or patched holes. The shirt he was wearing Andrew had never seen before. It looked to be of fine fabric, so delicately woven it was translucent over the tops of his arms, and though well-loved also well-kept. His vest was a deep, rich blue, with silver buttons. He'd washed his hair. It gleamed in the yellow lamplight.  
  
Andrew had never felt ashamed of his borrowed, ill-fitting clothes until that moment. He plucked at the hem of his shirt and crossed his arms behind his back to keep from pulling out the trailing threads. A strange welling-up was closing his throat.  
  
"Andrew! You came!" Nicky said, from the other side of the room. Neil looked up, eyes bright; For a moment his face was transparently joyful. Andrew had to force himself to look away and raise a halfhearted hand towards his cousin.  
  
Nicky was sitting beside Erik, guiding the other man's hand to the pieces on the checkers board he was sharing with a new patient in French blue-and-red. Nicky looked healthy, Andrew realized, his cheeks full, the worst of the circles gone from under his eyes. He was that way because of Neil and his mother. 

Andrew's gaze fastened back on Neil. The doctor had set down his polishing cloth and was standing, making his way across the room to Andrew. The blue in his vest brought out the darker flecks in his eyes.

“All that time fighting, and you never learned how to duck?”  
  
Andrew had the strangest sensation that he’d swallowed his tongue. He remained silent as Neil extended his fingers, touching the air in front of where Aaron had hit. The memory stung more than the bruise did.  
  
"If that starts to bother you, I’ll get you a cold compress,” Neil said. He dropped his hand to Andrew’s, and Andrew let himself be pulled into the circle of light and noise, his socked feet slipping on the floor. It seemed impossible that everyone in the room didn't know his skin was burning. But nobody mentioned it. A few men even cheered at the introduction of another fellow into their midst, the way drunk men do at bars, when the night is no longer young but yet not old enough to have lost the promise of adventure.  
  
Neil showed Andrew to a seat near the corner and then, to Andrew's surprise, shooed out the occupant of the seat beside it and sat there himself. Andrew fought the urge to clear his throat. He was deeply uncomfortable, but realizing he had two walls at his back and was mostly hidden by the jumble of furniture to his left helped him relax somewhat. Neil had dropped his hand, but was still looking at him, his eyes crinkled in the corners. Andrew wished he wouldn't. It made his tongue feel like heavy lead in his mouth. He didn't want Neil to ever look away.  
  
"Thank you," Neil said. "You didn't have to come." He tugged at his shirt-cuffs with his opposite hands. He was wearing a ring Andrew had never seen before on his thumb, dull gold. Andrew wanted to ask about it but he couldn't yet figure out how to make his mouth work. He settled for grunting. Neil seemed content with that much.  
  
"Ohhh, Mama, we're hungry out here!" one of the men called, leaning to peer down the hall. His seatmate rapped him on the back of the head, laughing.  
  
"Do I hear you offering to cook?" came Abby's voice from down the hall. She swept into the room, carrying a covered basket from which the fresh-bread smell was issuing and a beaten silver cup. The men cheered.

Neil stood, with a murmur to Andrew that he'd be back, and produced a bottle of dark red wine, more than half depleted. All around the room flasks and bottles were appearing, everything from fine liquor (pilfered from that same church, Andrew would bet) to military canteens. Those that didn't have any were splashed in. Andrew found himself handed the lid of an enameled thermos, stamped on the side with German. He took it by instinct, looking up into the shrapnel-torn face of the soldier who had given it to him, and was rewarded with a measure of something that smelled strong enough to curl his nose hairs. The German soldier winked and toasted him.  
  
Neil took the basket and cup from his mother and set them on the table with the candles, which was looking rather overburdened. He poured wine into the cup (Andrew could see why the bottle was almost empty, if he used that much on the regular) and set a hand on Abby's back, standing on tiptoe to murmur something into her ear. A hush fell over the room.  
  
Abby lit the candles with a battered pack of matches and then waved her hands over them three times, and then she and Neil covered their eyes. She started singing, and Andrew didn't recognize the language. He was so taken aback (how many languages did Neil and his mother _know_?) he forgot to listen. He glanced around and saw a few of the soldiers mouthing along. Somehow he hadn't thought about there being that many Jewish men in either army.

Neil raised the wine, surgeon's hands not spilling a drop though it was full to the brim. The men followed suit with their myriad containers. Andrew lifted the thermos cap a few inches. Abby turned to smile around at them all.  
  
"This is Church wine for a few more seconds, so if anyone's got an objection, drink your measure now," she said. One of the men jokingly made to down his flask. Nicky, who was sitting beside him, put his hand on the man's elbow and lowered it for him.

Neil was the one who sang for the wine. This time Andrew made sure to pay attention. The language was full of soft sounds, like when Jean prayed, but different. Neil's voice was lower than his mother's, scratchier, but that gave it a weight, and hearing it made Andrew warm all over.  
  
_"...Baruch atah Adonai, Elohenu Melech ha-olam, borei p'ri hagafen…"_  
  
" _L'Chaim!"_ One of the men shouted. It didn't need translation, but won it anyway, in a multicultural expression of unity: “ _Prost!” “_ _Sláinte!”_ _“Za Zdarovje!” “Santé!” “Egészségére!_ ” “ _Cheers, lads!_ ” Andrew knocked back the stuff in his cup. It made his eyes water, and it spread down his throat through his chest like a fire. The other man who'd gotten some of the German's booze coughed and was pounded enthusiastically on the back by said German.

Abby lifted the cloth over the bread and raised it, singing a much shorter prayer than Neil had, and then broke it in half and gave one half to either side of the room. Andrew ended up with the heel of the bread, but he didn't mind. It was hot, steaming up into his face, crusty on the outside and soft inside. It was the best thing Andrew had ever eaten. He broke off tiny pieces and ate them one by one to make it last.

Neil and Abby and a few of the mostly recovered men returned with pots of hardier and more plentiful food. Most men ate out of the same cups they'd drank from. Some got ahold of the few mismatched bowls Abby passed out, and some unashamedly ate straight from the pot. Neil came back over to Andrew with food for them both, and Andrew bemusedly examined the difference between Neil's tiny tea stirrer and the large wooden serving spoon he'd been given to eat his own meal.  
  
All around him men were laughing, chatting, eating. When the food was cleared away a few men took to the cleared floor for dancing, knocking each other over as often as they picked each other up again. Several times they tried to convince Abby to take a spin with them, but she refused, laughing and hiding her hands in her skirts. Erik, drunk on rather quite a lot of stiff whiskey, kissed Nicky on the side of the head. Nicky flushed dark red. Various drinking songs started up in one language and finished in another, with cheerful arguments about regional variations breaking through the melody.

It was like a dream. Andrew was afraid to stand up, in case he was actually drowning in a trench hole. He leaned close to Neil to be heard over the din and said, "You do this every Friday?"  
  
"This is a good one. It's different when there's a surgery," Neil said. His hair brushed Andrew's cheek as he turned his head. Andrew could feel the ghost of Neil's lips against his ear. He suppressed a shiver.  
  
He kept expecting Neil to stand again, move around, but Neil seemed content to lean back in his chair beside Andrew, hands clasped over his belly as he kept a running commentary on the steadily deteriorating dance moves. The room was over-hot with this many people this active in it. Every time Neil shifted Andrew felt the jostle of it go from Neil's chair through his own. Neil's leg was so close to Andrew’s. Holding his breath, Andrew let his legs part. He inched them wider, barely, by degrees, until the side of his thigh pressed up against Neil's. Neil didn't move away. Andrew thought his heart might pound out of his chest.  
  
"Why doesn't your mother dance?" Andrew asked.  
  
"It's too much like work. Besides, she's not a floozy to go dancing with strange men," Neil said, adopting a look of false affront. "She might if _you_ ask her."  
  
"I don't dance with women," Andrew heard himself say. His chest clenched. He could always blame this on the alcohol.  
  
"What about strange men, then?" Neil said, easily. He and Andrew were nearly embracing, so close had they to lean to hear each other.

"Maybe ones I know." Andrew couldn't take his eyes away from Neil. He put the thermos cap to his mouth again. There was wine inside this time, but it went down all the same.

The night deteriorated in the raucous, cheerful way all nights of drinking did, whether they were celebratory or commiserative. Andrew was wrapped in the warm gauze of a comfortable drunkenness, not enough to be sick but enough that his limbs felt wooden. He’d colonized part of Neil’s chair by now, mainly to see if Neil would stop him. Neil hadn’t. Andrew rested the back of his knuckles against the arm of Neil’s shirt.  
  
“What?” Neil said. He wasn’t drunk, but his mouth was purple-red from the wine. His hat was askew. Andrew wanted to twitch it back into place. The thought made its way through the muddle of his mind, and he jerked his hand away and dropped it to his own lap.  
  
The German who had been so generous with his thermos was snoring beside him. Andrew had narrowly avoided being used as a headrest. He shifted back, away from both of them—from Neil—and crossed his arms. “Nothing. You’re always watching. I see you. Too good to drink with us?”  
  
The words were mean. Andrew wanted to take them back and put something nice in their place. No, he didn’t. He was not a nice person.  
  
Neil’s eyes sharpened. He held out his hand, palm up. Andrew stared into it. Surely Neil wasn’t serious.  
  
“Someone calls your bluff and you’re all talk, soldier-man,” Neil said. His voice was just on the patronizing side of mocking, and it made Andrew clench his jaw and drop the thermos cap into the offered hand, twisting it so the chip in the rim was facing away from Neil. Andrew wouldn’t let him pretend to drink but instead have it dribble down his chin like some fairy-tale man with a grandma’s wisdom in his cap.  
  
He watched Neil’s face closely, but Neil didn’t even wince at the bitter taste of what might have been the worst rum ( _was_ it rum? Andrew couldn’t tell) that Andrew had ever had. Neil swallowed once, neatly, and then sucked the last drop from the thermos cap’s rim.  
  
Andrew wanted his _mouth_ on Neil’s _skin._  
  
He snatched the thermos cap back and threw it at the sleeping German. He heard it bounce off and clatter to the floor. The German didn’t stir.  
  
“Your secrets don’t make you special,” Andrew hissed, meaning to cut.  
  
At that Neil’s face shuttered. He was all at once standing, his chair rattling on its uneven legs as he left it, murmuring excuses to the few men awake enough to ask him where he was going. Andrew waited as long as his impatience would let him before following.  
  
He found Neil on the back porch, hunched over the railing, looking out into the darkened town. Andrew walked up beside him and lit a cigarette. Neil’s vest flapped in the slight wind. He’d unbuttoned it and was breathing heavily. Andrew watched him out of the corner of his eye, reserving his outward attention for the movement of some small furry animal across the ground. Once his eyes had adjusted enough to see most of Neil’s face by the overspill from light inside, he turned and tapped his ash out beside Neil’s splayed fingers. Neil flinched.

“If you’re going to vomit, point it out there,” Andrew said, indicating the darkness. Neil shook his head, and breathed out that same bark-laugh Andrew had heard before, after Nicky’s surgery at the horse trough.  
  
Neil said, “Abby’s not my mother.”  
  
Andrew stilled. It would be nice to say the knowledge sobered him, but that wasn’t how things worked. People only pretended they did. Instead he took a step back from his body and examined the evidence: Neil’s fingers tight around the railing, his hyperventilation. If he was lying, there was something else he was trying to conceal. But there were the differences in the features, him and his mother—him and Abby, that was. And how much indeed did Andrew know about him? He’d gotten lulled, he realized. He’d thought threatening Neil was enough to get truth.  
  
_A Polish doctor_ , Erik had said. Not a Polish doctor and his mother.  
  
“Keep talking,” Andrew said. He tried to make the words as much of a threat as they were. It was difficult that he didn’t know what he would do if Neil didn’t, only that it would be swift and painful.  
  
Neil’s shoulder blades worked under that delicate shirt. “After I graduated medical school, I got a posting as a doctor in a small town near the Russian border. I met Abby there. She—helped, sometimes. She had training, and she was always around. Her youngest had the croup.”  
  
So Abby had had a family, presumably, before this. Likely a husband. Again Andrew was struck by how much he’d assumed. He did not know these people at all. His cigarette burned his fingers; Andrew grunted, annoyed with himself for wasting tobacco, and lit another. He gave Neil the time until the lighter clicked off to continue.  
  
“Long way from Russia to here,” Andrew said.  
  
“The Russian border. Still—still Germany. But not quite far enough. When my Father found me. . .” he swallowed. It was loud. “Abby and I were the only ones left. We decided to travel together, for safety.”  
  
“For safety,” Andrew repeated. He blew smoke at Neil’s profile. Neil coughed. “Traveling with a woman was safety for you?”  
  
“I’m not like other men.”  
  
Andrew thought of the man he’d half-pulled (pulled, half) from the mud, still begging for the life he didn’t realize had been torn from him. “All men are like other men.”  
  
Neil bark-laughed again. He took Andrew’s hand and put it against his chest.  
  
For a wild moment Andrew was sure Neil was about to kiss him. But Neil stopped there, looking down into Andrew’s eyes. How dare he be taller than Andrew. Andrew moved his fingers against the fabric—it was soft, softer than skin—and felt the rasp of bandages. The tell-tale swell underneath.

So.  
  
Andrew had known men like Neil before. His time living with Nicky above the clothier that fronted for the underground club of a particular type had been an educating experience. He’d kissed some, and had taken one to bed—or rather, to the dark back room he used for all his trysts, despite Nicky’s catcalling that he should bring a man to a real mattress. But none of those men had mattered for themselves. They were more about what they represented, Andrew letting himself watch, and desire, and take what he wanted (if they wanted, that was the important part, _only_ if they wanted it too). Neil deserved more consideration.  
  
He was already a step outside his body. Now Andrew took another step, outside the outline of his mind, and turned it over in spectral hands. Did this change his desire for Neil? No. Even here with Neil’s fingers tight around Andrew’s wrist, even with the freshness of his lies, he wanted to take Neil in his mouth. The wanting of it made him burn. It made him angry, restless with an energy he couldn’t figure out how to get rid of.  
  
Andrew put out his cigarette on the railing and used his now-empty hand to cup Neil’s cheek. He dragged his knuckles over the whiskers there, as he had Neil’s sleeve, inside.  
  
“It’s a tablet,” Neil said, to a question Andrew wasn’t asking. “It’s—a school friend showed me how to inject it under my skin. I don’t know what will happen when I run out of them. I can’t shave because I can’t be sure it’ll grow—”  
  
Andrew touched the tip of his thumb to Neil’s lips. Neil tried to keep talking until Andrew pressed down, and then he subsided.  
  
“Why does it matter if I know?” Andrew asked, after considering and discarding a dozen other phrases.  
  
“I don’t know,” Neil said. His mouth was soft against Andrew’s thumbprint. Andrew’s fingers tightened minutely around Neil’s jaw. He could feel the barest flicker of Neil’s tongue, and Neil wasn’t doing it on purpose; utterly artless. Andrew wanted to throttle him. He wanted—  
  
Wanted.

Which was world-breaking. But Andrew would not, here, while Neil was ripping himself apart before him.

“I just had to, and I can’t explain it.”  
  
“Dangerous,” Andrew said. To himself or to Neil?  
  
“We both are.”  
  
Andrew could feel Neil’s breath on his thumb. His arm was bent awkwardly between them, Neil’s fingers lax around it now. The cramp in his wrist and the jut of Neil’s knuckles were so very present.  
  
“There you are!”  
  
Nicky burst through the back doorway, wobbling uncertainly on crutches and followed by a similarly zig-zagging Erik with a hand on Nicky’s shoulder to keep track of him. “Georgi said, shots!”

Andrew wondered if Neil would help him hide Nicky’s body when he killed him.  
  
“He’s not supposed to be drinking,” Neil said. He hadn’t bothered to move away from Andrew yet, but he did now, hurrying inside, buttoning up his waistcoat as he did. Andrew’s hands were cold without him. He stuffed them in his pockets and gave Nicky his best stinkeye.  
  
Nicky blinked in drunken cluelessness. He stumbled, catching himself with the crutch. A minute later he conveniently stumbled again into Erik’s arm and started laughing.  
  
Abby wouldn’t tell him where Neil was by the time Andrew finally managed to dodge past them and get back inside.  
  


* * *

  
Once, Renee had spoken to him about lovers.  
  
“Her name is Allison,” she’d confessed, lying crossways on her bunk beside him, their feet on the mud floor. Matt and Seth were amusing themselves making shadow-puppets in the light. Andrew watched idly as a dog devoured a lopsided goose. “She works on aeroplanes. I like to pretend she worked on Knox’s. She’s the best. Her dad steals all her credit, but she’s going to start up her own company someday.”  
  
“That’s a lot of faith to have in one person,” Andrew said. He scuffed his feet on the ground. He was trying to pretend he could reach easily without scooting down the bed.  
  
“Allie deserves it,” Renee said dreamily. “I’ve never seen her give up on a single thing. Not even trying to keep the window-box from flooding. I used to wake in the middle of the night and she’d be there drilling holes in the bottom in the pouring rain. They didn’t give us time to say good-bye before putting us in training,” (Andrew snorted to himself: one week of frog-marching wasn’t training) “but I snuck out and told her so she wouldn’t think I was leaving her. She kept pretending she wasn’t crying.” Renee touched her own cheek, right underneath her eye. “She has a birthmark right here. I remember there was a tear on it, and I wanted so badly to make sure she never had a tear there again.”  
  
“Sounds like a wet rag,” Andrew said. Renee shoved him in the shoulder. He shoved back.  
  
The shadow puppets splintered into hands and fingers once more. “Are we talking about love?” Matt asked. He jumped up and started digging in his pockets. Seth groaned and shared a commiserating look with Andrew, which Andrew allowed because he didn’t want to admit that hearing about Renee’s Allison was making him gloomy.  
  
“Shut up about your girl,” Seth complained, scooping a boot up from the floor and tossing it at Matt’s head. Matt batted it out of the air, unbothered, and dangled a picture on a watchchain above Andrew’s head. Andrew had to sit up to see it properly. He did so with a lot of groaning, to let Matt know he was annoyed about it.  
  
She was pretty, he supposed, if you were into that sort of thing. She was wearing an enormous feathered hat, but at least the photographer had known how to light for dark skin. He tossed the picture back towards Matt, who yelped and scrambled to catch it before it hit the ground.  
  
“Danielle Wilds,” Matt said.  
  
“I didn’t ask.”  
  
“Didn’t think you would, old pal,” Matt said cheerfully. He gazed into the picture with a look of stupid adoration. “She kept bothering me to enlist. She would’ve herself if they would let her. They caught her trying to sneak in. Now that I’m here I’m glad she’s back home, though.” He gestured to the soggy, filthy quarters.

There was a long pause. Andrew, never uncomfortable with silence, took a while to notice the three others staring. “What?”  
  
“Courtesy dictates it’s your turn,” Seth said from the ground.  
  
Andrew went cold. He stood, abruptly, and shoved Matt aside to reach the door.  
  
“Andrew,” Renee called after him. “You don’t have to—Seth, sit down—”

“Did you learn anything useful?” Wymack asked, tired. Doing the motions though he knew the result. Still with that tiny spark of hope that Andrew would have a morsel of information.

Fool.  
  
“No, Sir.”  
  
Wymack closed his eyes. He stayed like that for so long Andrew wondered if he’d fallen asleep. “Then I’m ending the assignment. Dammit, Minyard. If you try to sneak out, that’ll be desertion.”  
  
Andrew clenched his fist behind his back, recalling the texture of Neil’s slip-smooth shirt. “Understood. Sir. Am I dismissed?”  
  
  
  
  
  
(“I don’t have anyone,” he had said to Renee days later. “I don’t want anyone. Or anything.”

Renee had only nodded, face far too understanding, and had not brought it up again.)  
  


“Yes, you’re dismissed. Try not to get too drunk tonight, Corporal.”  
  
“No promises,” Andrew said, saluting, and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Note:**
> 
> People have been attempting to modify their sex characteristics by chemical means at least since ancient Egypt. The scientific chemical discovery and understanding of sexual hormones kicked off more recently, and continues to develop through the present day. Because the hormone therapy discussed in this work is testosterone therapy, what follows is a truncated history of modern TRT.
> 
> In 1849, Arnold A. Berthold published a series of experiments on roosters and their behavior and comb-growth. He discovered that when the testes were removed, the roosters were less aggressive and less sexually active, and their combs shrunk in size; and when the testes were re-attached, these effects reversed. In 1889, Charles-Edouard Brown-Sequard injected himself (woof!) with testicular extracts from guinea pigs and reported effects similar to what people using modern testosterone therapy experience; however, the extracts were later found to be nearly devoid of androgen, and so this would have been a placebo effect. Similarly, in the 1920s Sergio Voronoff transplanted animal testes on to human men; but in 1927 this was proven ineffective as hormone therapy by the Royal Society of Medicine.
> 
> In 1935, testosterone was synthesized in the lab by Aldolf Butenandt and Leopold Ruzicka. By 1940, results-driven testosterone therapy had begun to be administered. An oral pill (later discontinued because of toxic side effects), a subcutaneous pellet (like the one Neil uses), and forms of the ever-present injections were developed in the following years (and decades—information regarding HRT, especially for transgender people, has proven difficult for this amateur researcher to find). 
> 
> I have moved the timeline of testosterone therapy up a few decades in order to give Neil something that works. Nora gave me sports mafia; this is going to be _my_ suspension of disbelief.
> 
> An additional note about LGBT+ rights: the Polish-born German physician Magnus Hirschfield (1868-1935) was a gay Jewish man who advocated for many marginalized groups, including women, people of color, and queer communities. He wrote and gave speeches asserting that there was a wide variety of sexual orientations and biological sexes across humanity (and that agab didn't always = someone's experience), and that these were natural and should be accepted. As with any historical figure, the language he used sounds outdated to modern ears, so it is important to remember the context in which he published (and that he himself was gay). What is outdated now was revolutionary then.


	7. Wooden Overcoat

**PART III: December 1916—January 1917**

The darkness crumbles away.  
It is the same old druid Time as ever,  
Only a live thing leaps my hand,  
A queer sardonic rat,  
As I pull the parapet’s poppy  
To stick behind my ear.  
Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew  
Your cosmopolitan sympathies.  
Now you have touched this English hand  
You will do the same to a German  
Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure  
To cross the sleeping green between.  
It seems you inwardly grin as you pass  
Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes,  
Less chanced than you for life,  
Bonds to the whims of murder,  
Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,  
The torn fields of France.  
What do you see in our eyes  
At the shrieking iron and flame  
Hurled through still heavens?  
What quaver—what heart aghast?  
Poppies whose roots are in man’s veins  
Drop, and are ever dropping;  
But mine in my ear is safe—  
Just a little white with the dust.  
  


—“Break of Day in the Trenches,” Issac Rosenberg

* * *

**wooden** **overcoat /** **ˈwʊd. ən ˈəʊ.və.kəʊt** **/ _n_** _._ a coffin. Due to the nature of their work, soldiers have a history of inventing colorful euphemisms for death and its trappings.

* * *

  
“All right, maggots,” Wymack said. He lifted the canvas bag—maybe it was a tent flap, ripped free and repurposed—he had slung over his shoulder. It made a promising clatter. “Burial duty. You know the drill. Any man who goes out gets enough liquor to float ‘im out to the Navy when he comes back.”  
  
Singing Bob cheered. Andrew ignored him, and the flurry of back-slaps and shoves that followed the outburst.

Andrew didn’t need the liquor, all told. It was the one thing the army had in large supply, and unlike Kevin, Andrew didn’t enjoy being senseless drunk. You couldn’t protect yourself properly when you were that deeply inebriated. But nothing had happened for days now, and Andrew was feeling the restlessness deep in his bones.

 _This is what killed Whittier,_ Andrew’s mind said haughtily.  
  
_Fuck you_ , Andrew told it.  
  
Wymack’s chin dipped in resignation when Andrew raised his hand, but he’d have had to be an idiot not to guess Andrew would do something like this after being grounded. He ushered Andrew and the two other men who with much encouragement from Wymack’s glare volunteered alongside him to follow as he stepped aside and gave them the basic, “get out there, get our boys, get back” spiel Andrew was used to.  
  
Spiel. He’d learned that from Neil, hadn’t he? Spiel Neil. Neil, spiel. _Stop thinking about Neil._

They waited until dark to sneak out, Andrew and Singing Bob and another man, a new private Andrew didn’t feel the need to learn the name of. Once he’d survived a month, maybe he’d be worth looking at. Kevin stared at Andrew in quiet disapproval before he went out, desperate around the eyes. Andrew shook Jean’s hand and made mockery of a wrong-sided salute to Kevin, because acting like it was a big to-do anytime anybody left would have you worrying constantly over their deaths.  
  
You knew a man could die at any time. You couldn’t get sentimental about it. No matter what he meant to you, he meant nothing to the enemy.  
  
(He saw Aaron watching him go, a blond head around the corner of the trench wall, silver in the moonlight. Andrew didn’t acknowledge him. If Aaron wasn’t going to be a man about it, neither would Andrew.)  
  
The thing that always struck Andrew about crawling out over the blasted earth Up Above, wiggling on his belly like a legless rat, was the buttons on his tunic. Somehow Andrew could never get them to settle right. No matter how he moved, the dotted line of them twisted around his torso, digging into his chest through his shirt, bruising his hip where they got trapped by the webbing holding his kit. Fussing with his clothing was a sure way to make all the metal on his body rattle, so Andrew was forced to bear it, inching along the ground on elbows and knees as the fucking army crest embossed itself into his ribcage. Beside him the private gave a whispered curse. Andrew gave the shadowed shape of his hands before him a long, scornful look in the absence of a chance to give it to the private. Maybe, if the boy survived, Andrew would save it for him.  
  
You didn’t have to go far into No Man’s Land to find the dead.  
  
Spongy flesh gave under Andrew’s hand as he set it down, flies rising up to crawl over Andrew’s knuckles. Andrew had left any lingering disgust back in the trench: now was a time for the job to be done. He felt for the man’s wrist, to see if his ID tag was still there, and snapped it off to tuck inside his pocket when he found it. Wymack liked to send them back to the families when he could.  
  
Sometimes men got sent home in coffins, but more often they were simply scooped out of the trenches and off the ground into existing shellholes, ready-made graves for the soldiers they’d killed. If they could get a machine to do Andrew’s job, like a harvesting combine, then the whole thing could be completely efficient. Dragging the bodies into the crumpholes was a painstaking process, shifting them bit by bit along the pockmarked earth until they were far enough below the surface that you had the reward of crawling back up to get another one. And every moment was taut as a wire-string, listening for your own breathing in case it was too loud and you got caught. Listening for the Krauts as well, but the difficulty with that was that No Man’s Land wasn’t silent to begin with.  
  
It would have made better poetry if it was. But soldiers didn’t always get the mercy of a quick death. Too often men were trapped akimbo, forced to ground by shell debris or lost limb or the lingering effects of gas, pleading and crying out in pain while nobody came to rescue them. Stories grew up around the wailing that wound through the barbed wire night and day (but especially at night). Nobody wanted to think of their fellow out there, screaming to no answer.

Some men said there were clumps of deserters forging a ragged life for themselves under the spoiled ground, sometimes feral, sometimes benevolent mercy to the newly fallen. Some men said the crying came from the resurrected, shambling towards the trenches to avenge themselves upon the friends who had abandoned them. Andrew dismissed both as bedtime tales. Still, he had the instincts of his childhood, and he could not stop the electric spike of fear when he saw a shape move in the darkness, heard the wind pick up a wail and the noise rise all at once around him.  
  
He was at the bottom of another shellhole-turned-tomb when he heard the first crackings of gunfire. At first Andrew assumed it was another wraith, born of hair-trigger anxiety and exhaustion nightmare, but then he heard Singing Bob swear aloud. A moment later the distinctive whine of a German whizz-bang passed over his head. Andrew bit down a curse of his own and crouched into the mud, dropping the corpse he’d been dragging in favor of fumbling for his gun.  
  
The shell went off nearby, spraying Andrew from above. Singing Bob’s crude diatribe cut off abruptly. Andrew coughed dirt out of his mouth and squinted at the rim of his shellhole, sluggish heart already overtaxed from burial duty kicking to life in his chest. His ears rang in the aftermath of the blast—or was that the next? He hadn’t eaten in too many hours. Battle on an empty stomach was not the most fortuitous of circumstances.  
  
The dawn was barely breaking, creeping slowly over the world like a shy thing. It was cold. Andrew’s hands, now that he thought about it, had gone numb. He flexed them around the stock of his rifle, one finger at a time, to warm them. The shouting of the infantry rose from in front—he’d gotten turned around at some point during the night, and so the English were coming towards him. At least, he hoped those were the English. If it was the Germans, he was a lot closer to the enemy line than he’d planned.  
  
Boots thudded around the shellhole’s rim. Andrew could see enough to know they were Brits, and struggled to a position he could climb out of the hole from. The man he’d been burying was near enough to his departed fellows at the bottom, and it wasn’t like he’d mind if Andrew left him a bit early. Andrew wrestled his rifle around front and clicked the bolt back, something he'd been reprimanded from doing almost as many times as he’d done it anyway. Considering as Andrew was still alive and most of the officers who had told him to be careful were not, Andrew liked his chances better with his own method. Though it was just his fucking luck that he had to Sally Forth, Tommy Boy before he could get his liquid reward. Ah yes: there were the machine guns. Andrew grunted as he rocked over his toes—  
  
A stick grenade landed in the bottom of the hole, right between a corpse’s legs.  
  
An involuntary yell rose in Andrew’s throat, but the sound was locked inside. He knew he should think. He also knew there was no time. It was as if time was moving too fast, and Andrew too slowly, like running in a nightmare. With the dizzying certainty that he’d be too late, but powerless to control his own limbs, Andrew moved. He kicked the soldier he’d been dragging towards the pile at the bottom of the hole, scrambling out on the man’s distended stomach, trying to flop the body over the grenade to give himself any hope of escaping. His toes kept slipping down the mud. Andrew threw himself over the lip of the shellhole, his rifle coming last, clutched instinctively in his hand because he hadn’t had the time to decide to drop it.

As his chest hit the ground the grenade went off. An enormous flash of fire and light spewed from the hole, bursting with flying flesh. Andrew’s rifle arm rose on the force of it, his fingers squeezing the trigger in involuntary reaction to the heat. He swore he could feel his hand crisping. The round fired wildly as Andrew threw his other arm up across his eyes, rifle jerking as Andrew’s body seized back from the flame. He felt the heat of the blast on his back, shrapnel ripping up his right side and the guts of dead men spattering across his uniform. Blinded, he hunkered into the ground, tasting metal from either fear or biting his own tongue. He couldn’t tell.  
  
Fuck. _  
  
Fuck!_  
  
The smoke choked him, gritty in his nose and throat, and Andrew retched up water. His right arm hurt like hell, but the Germans were shit at shrapnel grenades, so he could still move if he needed to. Which he needed to. The sooner he stayed in one place, unmoving, the more likely it was a blast would blast him.  
  
He couldn’t get up.  
  
_No,_ Andrew thought, terror overtaking him, but he could feel his feet, feel his arms, he just couldn’t make himself stand. Fear had glued him to the ground, his shoulders twisted awkwardly, his knee under himself. His rifle would be useless until he worked the lever or fitted the bayonet; he at least needed to do that much. He needed to get up. _He needed to get up._  
  
This war would not take Andrew Joseph Minyard sniveling on the ground like a child.  
  
Andrew forced himself to his feet with a roar, feeling his skin tear along bits of metal as he staggered. He swung his rifle around in an arc, hitting the stock hard against his other palm. His shoulder wrenched, but he managed to dislodge his death-grip on the trigger. He fumbled to catch the rifle before it fell. He’d have seven rounds left now, the back of his mind calculated with residual cool-headedness. Technically the SMLE was designed to carry ten, but the piece-of-shit spring jammed if you filled the magazine to capacity, so most men worked with eight or nine cartridges loaded.  
  
There was a metaphor, in that.

Another shell went off nearby, but Andrew didn’t have the balance to stay standing and duck at the same time, so he was left blinking and wavering in the aftermath. Soldiers scrambled backwards around him, trying to get out of the blast radius. Andrew caught one by the arm and shouted in his face for orders until he realized his ears were ringing too much for him to hear a thing. With a frustrated growl Andrew thrust the man aside and turned to face the rising sun.  
  
There wasn’t much finesse when it came down to iron and bloody tacks. Throw yourself at the enemy and make damn sure you kill him instead of the other way around. Bleeding, limping, and dizzy, Andrew yanked back his rifle bolt to pop out the spent casing and joined the tide of khaki racing unto death.

Afterward, once Andrew had found his squad—Jean had lacerations on his hands from barbed wire, which Andrew tended wearily with his field dressing while Kevin dozed with an arm around Jean’s shoulders; Aaron stared sullenly and wouldn’t speak, but he showed his face, which was all Andrew needed from him, just then—and had a nurse see to his cuts and burn-blisters—which stung like a grease fire spill, especially with the disinfectant—Andrew dragged himself back to his bunk. He lay down, but he couldn’t sleep, even after a healthy dose of his burial duty winnings. It was as if his body was so used to being awake it had forgotten how to be otherwise. After earning Jean and Aaron’s frustrated words from his constant tossing, Andrew heaved himself up and made his way to the clearing station in the reserve trenches.  
  
It was the loudest place behind lines right now. If the frantic pace had slowed it was only because the medical staff were too tired to work as quickly. Tents had been set up to more easily intake the tide of wounded and sort them into categories of dead, dying, or able to hold his guts in for at least another few hours. Men packed the muddy ground, some weeping, some staring blankly. A few held up comrades whom they were too tired to realize had died while waiting for aid.  
  
A nurse hurried out as Andrew ducked under the flap of the nearest tent, carrying a tray of syringes. Andrew didn’t think she saw him at all. Inside, Higgins was elbow-deep in a man’s bowel. Behind him another nurse sewed up a gash while a gray-with-exhaustion ambulance man held the twitching limb still.  
  
“Nurse Dermott just went out with the painkillers, she’ll be with you in a moment,” Higgins said. His white apron was streaked with viscera. Peppery stubble covered his chin.  
  
“I’m in no more pain than I usually am,” Andrew said, raising his palms. Higgins looked up from the open torso and squinted at him. Andrew could see when his exhaustion-muddled brain put two and six together.  
  
“She’s in the back,” Higgins said. He returned to his bowel. The nurse finished her stitching and moved on to the next man, unspooling more sterile silk as she went.  
  
A tarp had been laid to contain the mess. It squelched underfoot, bloody, as Andrew made his way to the curtain dividing off the end of the tent. He passed odd bins of severed body parts on the way, some mostly intact, some unrecognizable. _Des guillotines,_ his mind supplied.  
  
Bee was scrubbing sheets in a vat as wide as Andrew was tall. If Higgins had been liberally spattered with blood, Bee looked as if she’d been dunked in it. Washes of bloody water from the vat had painted her red from kerchief to heel. Her sleeves and the bottom of her skirts were so caked with gore that Andrew couldn’t see the cloth. When she offered him a weary smile, there was blood smeared across her teeth.  
  
“You should be sleeping,” she said.  
  
“So should you, but this is war.” Andrew shucked his tunic and grabbed a dirty sheet from the basket, loading it into the vat. Red clouds billowed up under the water, making eddies in the blood already there.  
  
For how long he stayed there, dragging sheet after sheet through the cooling water, Andrew couldn’t say. He didn’t attempt conversation. Neither did Bee. They were too tired, and there was no need for it, simply the gristly kinship of doing what needed to be done. Andrew’s wrenched shoulder burned with the strain, but not enough to stay him. There was a rightness to the grating ache, like his body was holding the reality of the battle within it, spinning dead men into his sinews, shrapnel into his veins.  
  


* * *

  
Two days later Renee found him wrapped in his coat trying to catch some rest and pressed something into his palm.  
  
“I found this by the tunnel entrance. It was addressed to you.”  
  
“Is it a bomb?” Andrew took it, a tiny slip of a thing, just a bit of folded paper. He touched the ragged edge.  
  
“I don’t know,” Renee said.

The writing inside was crisp. Round. Familiar.  
  
  
  


  
_You left before I could say goodbye the other night. –NAJ_  
  
_What makes you think I would have said goodbye? –AJM_

_P.S. If this is about waistcoats, you should know not to care about stupid things. You’re a doctor. Be intelligent._

_  
  
_

  
“How is he?”  
  
Kevin was on pick-em-off duty, standing up on the firestep of the front trench, the sniper’s plate wedged in the bags in front of him. The folding plate was crude and heavy, but besides the loophole it was a solid inch of steel between Kevin’s head and German anti-snipers, so it was better than nothing. You just had to be careful not to get your face too close. Sometimes the bastards shot homebrew bullets that had been flipped in the cartridge, and the reverb from hitting the plate could get you an eyeful of metal flakes.  
  
Lookout was only slightly less mind-numbing than playing a thousand-and-first game of Rummy with Matt’s moldering playing cards. Andrew had followed with the excuse of the periscope and his notebook and pencil, but so far he’d seen no Germans and written nothing but a series of meandering spirals.

“How’s who?” Andrew asked, to be contrary.  
  
Kevin shot him an unamused look. “You’ve done nothing but fiddle with that note he gave you for three days. You didn’t even snap back at Jean’s complaints about English roofing tiles.”  
  
Roofing tiles? Why on earth had that come up? Andrew realized he was rustling the corner of the note where he’d tucked it between the pages of his notebook and stopped. Immediately he felt more irritable. Unless that was just being around Kevin.  
  
“He’s not dead,” Andrew said. So far, at least. Though Neil would be safer in the town than in the trenches.  
  
Marginally.  
  
“That’s good,” Kevin said. “I like him.”  
  
That made Andrew turn to face him, stomping to get the feeling back in his tingling feet. It was bitter cold today. Next time he’d bring his blanket to wrap around him. “You met him _once.”_  
  
“No,” Kevin corrected. He sounded surprised. “Three times. When Jean and I are sent out to find hideouts we try to stop by to see Nicky. I thought he would have told you.”  
  
Andrew digested that. He was surprised that Kevin and Jean had thought to do such a thing. He never expected anyone to watch out for his people except for himself.  
  
“He didn’t,” Andrew said shortly. Kevin made an inquisitive noise, and Andrew glared at him until he gave up and turned back to scanning the enemy trenchline.  
  
Neil had invited only Andrew to Friday evening, even though he was clearly well acquainted with Kevin and Jean. Andrew reminded himself harshly that it meant nothing.

Speak of the French devil: Jean popped out of the Bond Street trench to wander over to where Kevin and Andrew were not looking at each other. Andrew greeted him with a grunt, but Kevin was too focused. Jean set his back to the trench wall between them and shook out two cigarettes, watching amusedly as Kevin squinted through his sights. He didn’t even look over when Jean passed him one of the smokes.  
  
Andrew’s lighter was full of mud, but his own cigarette was nearly finished, so he lit a match for himself and Jean. Kevin turned his head, cigarette in his mouth, to light up as well, and only then realized who else was there. “Oh! How long. . .”  
  
“Hours,” Jean deadpanned. Kevin stared at him. Andrew could see the cogs working, trying to figure out if Jean was joking.  
  
Jean flicked the brim of Kevin’s hat. “Looking through those crosshairs must steal away your brain cells. Sergeant Berger is on the prowl, he thinks someone stole the scarf his wife knit him and he wants to shout at people about it. I’m here so I can look busy. What are we talking about?”  
  
“Nothing,” said Andrew.  
  
“Neil Josten,” said Kevin.  
  
“Oh it’s _Neil_ now, is it,” Andrew sneered. He ignored the look Jean shot him and kicked his heel back to stick into the mud of the trench wall. “Well, I’ll just leave you two alone, shall I. Or is it three? Except, I forgot, I’ve been taken off sneaking duty, so it doesn’t matter what I do.”  
  
Kevin opened his mouth to respond, but Jean touched his arm gently and turned to Andrew himself. “You,” he said calmly, “are being more of a bastard than usual.”  
  
Andrew whirled on him, furious, and felt the crunch of paper under his hand. He looked down and saw himself still holding his notebook. The page of spirals had crumpled under his fist, pulling out of the binding. With a great deal of self-control that, really, someone should praise him for but he knew nobody would, Andrew sighed and settled his weight back to the firestep. He ripped out the ruined page and stuffed the notebook back into his coat.  
  
Jean inclined his head. He knew Andrew didn’t apologize.  
  
“Berger,” Kevin said, trying clumsily to save the conversation. “I knew he shouldn’t have been promoted.”  
  
“We all did. But who listens to us?” Jean dug around for his canteen, and found it empty. He clipped it disgustedly back to his webbing. “Some men just go power-mad.”  
  
Andrew snorted. In his experience, that was all men. A look through the periscope found nothing across No Man’s Land but tattered remnants of clothing. He should have been looking through it constantly, but he’d decided on interval work to keep the boredom from liquefying his brain. It wasn’t like he’d been officially assigned with Kevin here.  
  
Kevin swore, flexing his hand. “My fingers are going numb like this. There’s no talent in this kind of work. We should have put Martin on it.”  
  
“Martin died two days ago.”  
  
“Oh, right. Well someone who’s not me.”  
  
“Stop pouting,” Jean said. He crouched down to stretch his arms over his head— even if Andrew hadn’t seen anything, Kevin was proof that any limb sent up over the top would be a target—and then stayed there, resting his ass on the muddy duckboards. Andrew idly considered kicking him, but only for entertainment. Kevin had gone from bad company to worse.  
  
Making a decision, he handed the periscope to Jean. Jean tried to protest, but Andrew tapped at his stripes and Jean acquiesced with a glare. “Power-mad,” Jean said in a loud whisper to Kevin.  
  
“‘It is a base thing for a man among the people not to obey those in command,’” Andrew quoted to the general ether. “I’ve got more important things to do.”  
  
“Like what? There’s been not so much as a pip from the other side for a week.”  
  
“Somebody’s got to find a place for those comforts from home,” Andrew said, reaching into his tunic and unwrapping a thick, knitted scarf from about his waist. “Gentlemen.”  
  
“You motherfucker,” Jean said approvingly.  
  
  


_Did you learn French from Jean? You’re a well of secrets with no bottom, doctor. I think you’re a spy. –AJM  
  
I learned French from living in France. Is it true your mother abandoned you in America? Is that why you use American English? —NAJ  
  
Fuck you.—AJM_

_  
  
_Stand-to; sleep; shells; mud; stand-to; fight; stab; moldy hardtack; mud; sleep; mud; rats; stand-to; shells.  
  


  
  
  
_Being around these ugly bastards is almost enough to make me miss your peerless bedside charm. Have you made any new ones cry yet? –AJM  
  
Anything for our brave soldiers. –NAJ_

  
  
Matt had landed badly slipping on the mud, and a behemoth of a splinter had passed through the back of his calf. It wasn’t a debilitating injury, especially for a man who spent his time crawling around underground, but it sent him back to the aid center to get it out. Andrew expected him to be back on his feet by the time he came back. Instead he and Renee heard the distinctive rhythmic thump of someone tripping down the stairs and looked up from the game they were inventing, trying to knock over each other’s piles of tiny stones. Renee went cautiously to the dark hole that passed for a doorway.  
  
She made a wordless exclamation, and a moment later came back inside with Matt leaning heavily against her. Andrew too got to his feet. Together he and Renee got Matt flat on his bunk. He was sweating, not from fever, and his jaw was clenched in a garish grimace.  
  
“Chloroform,” he explained, through gritted teeth. Andrew swore he could hear Matt’s molars squeaking together. “They got a new nurse—Johnson—wanted to practice doing anesthesia. I figured, why the fuck not, this isn’t a bad hurt so what’s the worst that can happen? Shit,” he said, and started coughing. Renee rolled him over to his side to keep him from choking on his own tongue.  
  
“Matthew,” Renee chided. Matt’s lungs had been weak when he’d gotten to the Front. They had not improved in the damp and gas-barraged months since.  
  
“I know,” Matt got out between coughs, but it proved too much. He went from coughing to gagging, hitches of breath catching, his chest heaving violently. He rolled over onto his front, head hanging off the bed. Tears started streaming down his face.  
  
Renee rested a hand on his back, rubbing a helpless circle. She looked at Andrew with pleading eyes. Andrew handed over his canteen and Renee held it to Matt’s mouth, but Matt was choking so badly he almost overturned it trying to drink.  
  
“Was she pretty?” Andrew asked.  
  
Matt shook his head, trying to speak. He gave up and made a gesture that indicated the nurse had not been a woman, but a man. He had time for an apologetic look at Renee before he doubled over again.  
  
Andrew examined his nails. “Was _he_ pretty?”  
  
The question distracted Matt enough to interrupt the seizing of his lungs. Renee managed to get him a few sips of water, helping Matt sit up.  
  
“He wasn’t bad,” Matt admitted hoarsely. “That might have had something to do with it.” He coughed again and spat. Renee proffered the canteen, and this time Matt took it and drank from it on his own.  
  
Surprised, Andrew met Renee’s eyes over Matt’s head. Had she known about Matt’s inclinations? Renee smiled, her fear softening for a moment, before Matt started another round of awful choking and she moved further into the bunk to press a soothing hand to his chest.  
  
“Might leave that out of your next letter home,” Andrew said at length. Again, Matt shook his head.  
  
“Dan won’t mind. She knows I’m all for her.” Matt winced and swallowed, touching his throat. “Fuck. It was horrible. I went down easy enough, went all pins-and-needles in my fingertips and then I was out. But partway through. . . .”  
  
“Oh, no,” Renee said. Andrew might have expected another woman to sound aghast. Renee was only resigned. She’d been here for too long. They all had.  
  
Matt’s eyes had unfocused, his fingers still resting lightly around his neck. “I was already fighting, when I woke up. That was what surprised me. I couldn’t remember moving, but I was writhing like a wild thing. I didn’t—feel the knife, I don’t think, but my brain convinced me I would, or that I did. It was confusing, and everything was spinning. I tried to tell them something was wrong. But the mask was already on me, and when I tried to speak all I got was chloroform. The next time I woke I could feel it in my chest. That tightness that comes before I’m going to have an attack. But I didn’t want them. I wanted to get back here.”  
  
Renee stroked his hair back from his face. Matt leaned into her hand, breath shuddering.  
  
Andrew realized he himself was getting dizzy, his throat turned to ice. “I’ll speak to Bee.”  
  
“It’s not his fault,” Matt protested. “He’s new, and I didn’t tell him about my lungs. Besides, it was only a bit of wood.”  
  
“Bee will listen,” Andrew said, over Matt’s words. He crouched before him, knees feeling the damp from the dark earth. It put him below Matt’s eye level, but there was no power in the man like this. Deliberately, Andrew reached out his hand and rested it over Renee’s, clenched on Matt’s heaving chest. “That worthless bastard will be gone by tomorrow.”  
  


  
  


_You will never sedate me without my permission. –AJM_  
  
_Andrew. I promise. –NAJ_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Note:**
> 
> Though Kazimierz Żegleń and Jan Szczepanik had by 1901 created a bulletproof vest made from woven silk, most soldiers of the first world war had little to no body armor. The Żegleń-Szczepanik vest was only effective against small arms fire (good for protecting Spanish Kings,* but not front line soldiers), and though several attempts at creating hardier armor were made, they were almost invariably of metal, which was too heavy—and too expensive—a material to kit out every soldier. 
> 
> Sniper plates like Kevin’s were one of the few types of protection soldiers had from incoming fire. Lighter plates could be added to helmets, carried in front of the body, or even used to make shovels that the soldiers could hide behind at need. Like the trenches themselves, they were an inelegant defense against the brutal new weapons seasoned in the first world war.
> 
> I have found multiple sources citing a British Army Medical Services report published near the end of the war that calculated 75% of total battlefield injuries could have been prevented by body armor. Unfortunately I have not been able to find the report myself, but if true, this figure paints a somber picture of how desperately vulnerable troops in the Great War were.
> 
> *King Alfonso XIII of Spain survived a bomb explosion inside a carriage covered in Szczepanik’s bulletproof armor.


	8. Pear Drops

* * *

**pear** **drops /** **peə r drɒps/** **_n._** poison gas. Pear drops are a British boiled sweet that get their flavor from isoamyl acetate, an ester. KSK, a tear gas used in WWI, was an ethyl acetate derivative that had a smell reminiscent of that of the candy.

* * *

  
“Gas! _Gas!”_

  
Andrew had been carrying a box of ammunition with Aaron, passing it awkwardly single-file under a bit of corrugated metal roof laid over the trench-tops. Immediately they both dropped the box and fumbled for their masks. Around him, Andrew could hear the cursing and clattering of other men doing the same.  
  
There was nothing like the sharp panic of a gas attack. The masks were far from infallible, and only covered the head, but in those instants a canvas hood and a respirator tube became king, God, and father. Andrew forced himself to check the integrity of the tube and the fit of the hood around his neck with trained competence. Fluttering wildly was how men made mistakes. Barely an instant after the cloudy glass lenses slid over his eyes he saw the terrible rolling smoke seeping down the trench. Mustard, this time. Andrew drew as much of himself into his coat as he was able.  
  
Gas was isolating. Other men became monstrous shapes in the fog, sprouting bug-eyes and elephantine trunks, smoke billowing after their movements. Instinctively Andrew held his breath. When his lungs were bursting he had to squeeze his eyes and fists shut to let it out and draw another. His breath was harsh in his ears. If there was a hole in the respirator tube, or a tear in the hood. . .  
  
Andrew shoved such useless thoughts away, but they lurked and kept sallying forth again. The endless chatter of the army dampened to desperate silence. Every man thinking he could feel the gas entering his own lungs, choking him, killing him.  
  
If gas deaths were instantaneous, they would have been bad enough. But Andrew had seen men who hadn’t gotten their masks on, gasping for days as the chlorine or phosgene ate away at their bodies from the inside. If it was chlorine they would turn black, green foam bubbling at their mouths as they coughed. If it was phosgene the men might not even know they’d inhaled it until they choked on their dinner and found it wasn’t the dinner they were choking on, after all.  
  
But Andrew’s least favorite was the mustard gas. It didn’t have to be inhaled. If it hit your skin you bubbled up in horrible blisters, screaming pain and twisting bodies, and even afterwards it didn’t go away. Andrew had watched Bee give nearly-lethal doses of morphine to mustard-gassed men who wouldn’t stop crying in pain days after they’d been attacked.  
  
The thought of being trapped in a bed with no escape from his own blistered flesh was more terrifying than death.  
  
“When the first attacks came,” Betsy had told him, “we had absolutely nothing. We had the men soaking their socks in urine and tying it over their noses and mouths, because we had to tell them something. I’ve had more soldiers go mad for the fear of gassing than scared to go over the top.”  
  
The filtered air was stale, chemical in a way that Andrew had to continually convince himself was by design and not by a fatal leak. Time had no meaning inside the mask, just the endless repeat of his breath, his body cold and distant beneath him. He was a floating head in the poisonous clouds. Every moment existed only to precede the next. Andrew tried to think of yesterday’s argument with Kevin, or the words to describe the ache of hunger after a measly under-rationed meal, but all thoughts slid away from his mind like water through a sieve. He could only stand there and force himself to breathe.  
  
When the all-clear sign went off Andrew always had to take a moment to convince himself to trust it. He never quite managed. The first breath after he ripped off the hood always tasted like chlorine.  
  
 _Wrong smell for mustard,_ Andrew reminded himself. Of course, there was no guarantee the Germans had hit them with only one.  
  
Aaron was shaking, badly. He dropped the box three times trying to pick it up again, and finally swore and kicked the wooden side in frustration.  
  
“Breathe,” Andrew told him.  
  
“Don’t. I’m still not talking to you,” Aaron gasped out. He tried a fourth time and managed to heft the box up onto his shoulder. “I’ve got this. Go back.”  
  
 _Don’t be a moron_ , Andrew might have said. He said nothing. He turned around.

It started to rain on the way back. Andrew ducked into the canvas lean-to that served as temporary forward quarters for his crew and shook out his dripping hair. He knew he wouldn’t sleep, but maybe he had time to close his eyes for twenty minutes before something else went cock-up.  
  
Kevin stepped through the flap, miserable with his dark hair plastered to his skull. He slumped beside Andrew. Andrew turned to hand him a flask of commiseration. It was cold enough he could see Kevin’s breath; and then Andrew saw that the mist was rising from Kevin’s shirt. He dropped the flask and shoved Kevin backwards out of the tent.  
  
“What—”  
  
“You’ve got gas on you,” Andrew hissed. Kevin went pale. Andrew saw him start to reach for his mask and only then he stepped back and dragged his own on, fitting the respirator to his nose and tightening the straps again as he had only minutes before. Kevin was jerky with fright, but training muscle memory took over and he had his mask on as the gas stopped rising from his body. That didn’t mean it was gone. Mustard gas could freeze on men’s clothing in the cool outside, and the warmth of a bunk made it turn again to vapor.

Together he and Kevin worked Kevin’s coat off, and then his shirt, fingers slipping in the rain. When Kevin was bareass naked Andrew dragged him away from the pile of clothes and stood there reaching up to hold Kevin tight by the back of the neck, staring up at him as best he could. His vision was hampered by the glass goggle-eyes of the mask. Kevin loomed above him, a shadow being, an under-the-bed fright. His chest was rising and falling too rapidly. Andrew pulled him down further by his neck, so Kevin was nearly bent in half, and tried to push their foreheads together. He couldn’t tell Kevin to breathe, couldn’t look into his eyes; their respirators jostled, and their glass goggles clanked. Kevin was two seconds from running. Andrew held him firm and let him shiver.  
  
Fear was crawling centipedes up his spine. Andrew ignored it to focus on Kevin.  
  
Eventually (he had no idea if it had been long enough, but frostbite was also a worry) he pulled Kevin back inside, leaving his clothes outside to soak. Kevin was shivering, teeth chattering so hard he’d bitten through his lip. Fear or cold? Both, likely. He grasped a blanket with clumsy fingers and wrapped it around his shoulders.  
  
“Thank you,” he said, voice raw. Andrew shook his head and closed his eyes.

Kevin had terrors that night, which was a surprise to none of them that knew him. He woke gasping about someone named _Ree,_ or maybe _Rick_ —Andrew had never asked, and Kevin had never cared to tell him—and then shuddered so violently he shook the bunk. Jean fumbled to click on his torch and murmured soothing sounds, rubbing Kevin’s back.  
  
Andrew was down the side of the bedframe to the lower bunk before his brain caught up. For a moment he thought Jean would send him away, but Jean sighed and moved so that Andrew could squeeze into the no-space against the wall. They lay there with Kevin bracketed between them until Kevin fell again, fitfully, asleep. Eventually, driven by exhaustion, so did they.  
  
Andrew woke once in the middle of the night, jolted by Kevin’s sleep-wiggling. He saw that Aaron had joined them, leaned up against the side of the bunk with his head by Jean’s knee, one hand holding Kevin’s sniper’s fingers as he slept.

  
  


_Your father’s a bastard. –AJM.  
  
Make sure you wash your nose, eyes, and exposed skin as best you can. Drink hot water to help with throat soreness. –NAJ  
  
  
  
_

It got colder. Snow piled up in No Man’s Land, and the water in the trenches froze solid, making for frictionless footing that more often than not had Andrew skidding, heart thumping as he tried not to fall. The mud also froze, making advancement impossible as nobody could dig at all. Renee and Matt returned from excursions with purple fingers and frustration. Freezing became an addition to the ever-expanding roster of ways to die.  
  
Jean, suckled in the heat of southern France, was miserable.  
  
“At least you’re not a Highlander,” Wymack said, examining Jean’s huddle of blankets inside the latrine—shored up with sandbags, it was the warmest place aboveground. According to Jean the smell was worth it if he could feel his toes. “I wouldn’t fancy your delicate circulation in a kilt.”  
  
“I hate you, Sir,” Jean said wearily. Wymack laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.  
  
Andrew, who had spent years in sunny California, might have been in a similar state if it weren’t for the past four years in London. As it was, he was cold enough. Sheepskin coats were issued to the British troops, and Andrew alternated between wrapping his around his head, shoulders, and feet so at least a fraction of his body could be warm. The sheepskin retained water even more than the regular wool uniforms. Andrew kept having to clean the icicles from his cuffs and collar. Even his nose hairs froze.

Christmas was an excuse to drink (not that the soldiers needed it) and try to bring a mote of cheer into their cheerless existence. Hampers trickled in, from the well-stocked miniature larder sent by Rhemann’s mother, given to the rest of the battalion in his absence, to the flannel-wrapped loaf of stale bread that Singing Bob cradled to his chest with the reverence reserved for newborns. Matt’s Danielle sent tea, homemade taffy, and a truly terrible fruitcake. Aaron’s Katelyn sent a practical box of bandages and disinfectant, as well as a photograph of the twins, and, in blatant disregard of Aaron’s wishes, an entire tin of scones. The scones, though frozen from transit, were very good: they had currants in them. The twins were wearing matching checkered dresses. Aaron held the photograph in his hands, head bowed, for a long time.  
  
So as to not tempt a repeat of the military catastrophe that had been the Christmas of ’14—it defeated the purpose, if your men refused to fight—command rode Wymack’s ass hard about keeping his soldiers properly patriotic for the holiday. Wymack carried this out by telling his men to drink to whichever king they liked, as long as he wasn’t for the other side.  
  
“I’ll drink to the Queen,” Jean said, tilting his cup of water towards Kevin. Andrew was surprised Kevin was able to muster up enough warm blood to blush. The moniker had come after a Brit, amazed at Kevin’s gunmanship, had told him he should shoot for the King. Kevin, Irish to his core, had snapped back that he didn’t care for any English king, and the man’s response (“for the Queen, then?”) had been transmuted to a nickname that stuck.

  
_Don’t let Nicky trick you into getting into bed with him for warmth. He’s got designs on your virtue. –AJM_  
 _  
Abby swears this is the only thing that saves her hands from cracking in the winter. She made a whole vat of the stuff. None of us can pick anything up because we’re too well-oiled. If you don’t take some of it I swear she’ll make us start eating it for dinner._ _–NAJ_

  
The note was pasted to the top of a jar of greasy, herbaceous-smelling lotion. Andrew turned the jar over in his hands. There was a feeling like a hole in his chest, not tearing but seeping. A pinprick at the bottom of his lungs that eked out all the air.

He gave the jar to Kevin. Rifleman’s gloves had the thumb and forefinger cut out to keep the all-important trigger finger free.  
  


  
Army rum was tarlike and potent, just as like to knock a man over as to keep him standing. Wymack usually turned a blind eye to drinking on duty—sometimes even encouraged it, lining soldiers up before battle and pouring the eye-stinging swill into their mouths.  
  
It was no more than most officers did, to keep their men moving. Sometimes the only way to raise spirits was to drink them. So finding the cache of French liquor, buried in some forgotten cellar to age until doomsday, should have been a stroke of luck.  
  
Andrew had never put much stock in luck.  
  
Maybe Wymack had gotten orders; maybe he was having a bad day; maybe he’d found the hole under his bunk where some of the newer privates were burying shit, which Andrew had been allowing in order to see how long it would take the Sergeant-Major to notice. In any case, he ordered the men to blow the lot.  
  
“Sir,” Kevin argued, the loudest voice among the rabble of protestations. “That’s good stuff. It’s a waste to blow the whole thing. And won’t the Germans think it’s odd to see a flame go up on our side, that they didn’t plant?”  
  
“Private Day. For that you’ll be helping to lay the fuse.”  
  
“But Sir!”  
  
“Was that an argument, Private?”  
  
“. . .no, Sir.”  
  
Andrew had no interest in being down the tunnel when the bomb went off, but Kevin without supervision was a sure way to disaster. He’d have liked to rope Jean and Aaron into it, but Jean wouldn’t appreciate Kevin’s lamentations and Aaron. . . .  
  
Anyway.  
  
Kevin’s torchlight gave the racks of bottles an eerie, closed-in feel. Andrew didn’t mind small spaces—didn’t seek them out, necessarily, but he didn’t run screaming from them—but something in the difference between complete darkness and the single beam of light, dragging a buttercup circle over the dusty glass and the heavy wood of the steeping barrels, made it feel like the walls were crowding together. He poked Kevin in the small of the back. Kevin nearly jumped out of his skin.  
  
“Hurry up,” Andrew muttered.  
  
Reluctantly Kevin set down his bundle of explosives and began setting it up. He kept casting longing glances at the shelves. “It’s a crime,” he burst out. “We’ve little enough to warm us in this hell, and he wants us to blow one of the only things we’ve got?”  
  
Andrew was growing impatient. There wasn’t anything to do up above, but at least there he wouldn’t be trapped in the dark with a sulking Kevin. He shoved Kevin aside and took over configuring the explosives. Kevin, the fuckwad, took the excuse to start wandering around the cellar, examining the soon-to-be-granulated wares.  
  
“Look at this. Sauvignon blanc from the _Loire Valley_ ,” he complained, shining his light across a label. He waited for Andrew to express similar outrage. Andrew didn’t. Kevin grumbled under his breath and moved on.  
  
“Oh!” he said, a few minutes later. “Andrew, we can’t let this one go.” He tucked his torch under his arm and took a bottle off the rack with reverent hands, brushing the grime off with a corner of his sleeve. “Cote d’Or. I’ve never had a Burgundy from there. They’re supposed to be the best ones.”  
  
“Hide it from Wymack then,” Andrew said. He started to lay the fuse.  
  
It was too dark to see Kevin’s face, but Andrew recognized the guilty bob of his head. “I suppose we could just. . . taste it? For the sake of history.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
Either Kevin didn’t hear the derision dripping from Andrew’s tongue or he didn’t care. He dug his knife into the cork and wiggled it free, not without some grunting. The pop was loud in the tiny cellar. He wafted the smell towards his nose. “Oh that’s lovely.”  
  
“Bet it tastes like a horse’s shit.”  
  
“Like you’d know.” Kevin held the bottle reverently for another moment, and then tipped it up into his mouth. “Oh, you have to try this one.”  
  
“Fine,” Andrew said, annoyed. He held out a hand. Kevin passed the bottle over. It was cool to the touch, gritty from its underground holding cell. The wine inside was rich and red. Andrew took another swallow and handed it back. The taste of it lingered, sticky, more bitter than sweet.  
  
“Right?”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
Kevin hesitated. “We don’t,” he said, “need to be back right away, do we?”  
  
Thirty minutes later they were leaned back against the wooden racks, passing the bottle back and forth. Kevin was going through more of it than Andrew, but Andrew was definitely feeling warm. Kevin had even shed his greatcoat. And why shouldn’t he indulge, Andrew told himself. He’d done the delicate work already, and it wasn’t like there was a battle on. Just a war. And those went on forever.  
  
“—and they thought the wings would balance the back,” Kevin was saying. Andrew hadn’t paid attention to the topic, or maybe Kevin hadn’t specified beyond the general aeronautical persuasion. “But the thing is. The thing. Listen.” Kevin put the bottle to his mouth again, and found it empty. He reached up for another above his head and stuck his knife under the foil. “These F.K.10’s got higher, which was the point. But the wings didn’t balance the back. So you just have these four wings pointing nose-up into the sky,” Kevin had to pause in picking the cork out to giggle, “with the pilot hanging underneath like a dangling fish, and his gunner, and they couldn’t roll for shit because _four wings_ so they have to put all their effort into getting her steady. As if the Fokkers aren’t killing us all with one wing. With one! Four!”  
  
“I get it,” Andrew said, snapping his fingers. It took him a little more figuring out than it usually would to get the sound right. “You fucked an aeroplane and got his daddy angry. That’s why you’re down in the mud with us instead of soaring through these fucking French clouds.”  
  
Kevin closed his mouth with an audible click of teeth. Andrew looked over; Kevin’s face was in shadow, the torch having rolled across the ground to stare blankly at a barrel labeled in printed French, but from the position of Kevin’s hand Andrew knew he was tracing the stark black “2” tattooed on his cheek. It was a common tic of Kevin’s when he was upset. Andrew had never asked where the tattoo came from. It didn’t matter who people were before they came to the trenches. The only thing that mattered was how they behaved within them.  
  
Right now the action hit him like a jagged knife over the ragged ends of his nerves.  
  
“Hey,” Andrew said. He knocked his shoulder into Kevin’s. “Did I get it right? The Fokker has a beautiful wingspan, oh, tell me about her slender wheels.”  
  
He wasn’t completely joking. Kevin’s background chatter helped fill the dark spaces of his mind, kept him from getting maudlin when he was drinking. Kevin remained silent, though, so Andrew heaved himself up onto his knees and took Kevin’s wrist.  
  
“Stop that,” he said. “Fuck whoever gave you that. If it was you, fuck you from before. I’m your commanding officer now. You’re mine to protect.”  
  
“I’m sure the German artillery will be shaking in their Boche fucking boots.”  
  
Andrew tapped Kevin’s cheek with the flat of his hand. “Look at you. You’re drunk in a hole in the ground. You know why I came with you today? I knew you’d do something like this. I don’t trust you to anyone else. None of us are getting out of this war alive, but I’m sure as hell not going to let you go before I do.”  
  
He released Kevin, satisfied. Kevin slumped back against the wooden shelf, but he didn’t reach for his tattoo again. A moment later he took another swallow of wine. He didn’t look like he was savoring it, anymore. Andrew wasn’t going to listen to his complaints later about the waste.  
  
Wymack found them some time later, Kevin mumbling insensate surrounded by bottles and Andrew watching with tipsy distaste. He was so angry Andrew thought for sure he’d break his own tradition and order the two of them flogged, but after several deep breaths followed by a lot of shouting he dragged them out of the tunnel and set the fuse himself. Andrew noticed, in the weak sunlight, that Kevin was crying. From the loss of the booze, he assumed, though it occurred to him later that he hadn’t checked to see if Kevin’s face had been dry before.

  
  
  
_Found some more sedatives for you. –AJM  
  
Morphine? Opium? Whatever it is, thank you. We’ve got some bad gas burns in. –NAJ  
  
It's Kevin. Next time he comes by prick open a vein. The alcohol content of his blood should be enough to knock some poor fucker out. –AJM_

_I’ve been told the English word is “comedian,” but I think “asshole” suits you better. –NAJ_

His notebook was becoming fat with notes stuffed in it, and Andrew had traced the letters so much they were rubbing down. At idle moments he would remember, like a ray breaking the clouds—like a mine triggered underground—Neil’s voice, his clever hands stitching men together, the shape of his mouth. That damned see-through shirt.

Andrew tried to jerk off, to solve the problem, but it didn’t work. His dick was still broken. His brain replayed images of Neil Josten, taunting, tantalizing, keeping him from the bare hours of sleep he could snatch from his over-wearied body. _For surely it was thou, who, like a star Hung in the silver silence of the night, Didst lure the Old World’s chivalry and might Into the clamorous crimson waves of war!_  
  
Andrew had always had a soft spot for Wilde. He realized now it was nothing but sentimental fantasy. Jean told him if his mattress bothered him that much he could take it outside and shoot it for its insolence. _Corporal.  
_

  
  
  
_Andrew, this is an entire chloroform rig. –NAJ  
  
Don’t get all wobbly in your chinny-chin-chin. Our nurses can’t be trusted with it, and it was either you or throwing it down a crumphole. –AJM  
  
_

  
A train of French Colonial troops from Algeria broke down passing through. Wymack bargained repair work for four cases of halal food, and Jean was able to eat meat for the first time in months.

  
  


_~~On Fridays I miss~~ _ _  
~~Sometimes I think about  
I wish you could come~~  
Abby tells me to make sure you’re eating. –NAJ  
  
Only all of my killing. That’s Shakespeare, by the way. Read a book. –AJM  
  
I’m a certified doctor. From Germany. –NAJ  
  
I suppose we all have our flaws. –AJM_

  
The temperature continued to drop. Andrew amused himself finding the ugliest sweaters from the general care packages to force over Jean’s pretentious head. Eventually, though, even Andrew had to admit he couldn’t stand without shivering. The twice daily stand-to became less an exercise in military discipline and more a practical exam asking how one could be alive when every extremity had gone numb. Andrew tucked himself into his coat against the A-frame, keeping an ear out for approaching officers. It was taking a long time this morning. Maybe the pole up Sergeant Engle’s ass had frozen and he was trying to shit it out.  
  
(Berger had caught trench fever and been shipped back, or maybe died. Andrew hadn’t cared enough to check. His wife’s scarf was itchy, but Andrew would take anything he could get against the bitter chill.)  
  
Aaron’s usual place on Andrew’s left had been taken by an axe-faced man who looked as pleased about the arrangement as Andrew felt. He kept edging sideways to leave as much space between himself and Andrew as the firestep allowed. Finally Andrew snapped and slammed his fist down in the mud between them. The man jerked backwards, ice cracking under his feet.  
  
“I’m not going to bite you when it’s this cold,” Andrew said. The man looked away, and Andrew called upon what patience Renee had instilled in him to hold back a sigh. “If you’re scared of your fellow soldier there’s no point in you being here at all.”  
  
“Yeah, well, the Krauts don’t rip people’s throats out with their teeth _,”_ the man’s friend said, tucking the frightened man under his arm. “I think we can take our chances, you fucking monster.”  
  
It had been one of the first things that set Andrew’s squad apart from the others, past even their rag-tag nature; everyone was mixed up at this point in the fighting. Andrew had been pinned against the trench wall by a German, his arms trapped, his rifle in the mud, and had fought back with a wildness he’d learned young and tempered in military training.

Technically he’d bitten through the bastard’s ear, not his throat, and had killed him with the knife he’d been able to struggle from his belt once the German had reared back in disgust. Coming up from a scuffle with a bloody mouth and an expression that he’d heard described with many different synonyms for “terrifying,” though, had bred a certain story. Story became legend, and Andrew Minyard had become a beast in the eyes of the Tommies. He didn’t care, other than a thought for the convenience it offered when waiting in line for the latrine.  
  
His favorite version was the one where he blackmailed Kevin for berserker moss and painted bloody symbols on his naked body before battle. It had a certain poetry to it.  
  
That incident had happened before Jean had joined their little crew, and Andrew hadn’t heard much of it since they’d come North. Perhaps that was why it took Jean by surprise. He jolted from inside his cocoon of his and Kevin’s layered coats and mumbled something in French. Kevin answered in the same language and gestured to Andrew.  
  
“You’ve set off his men,” the frightened man whimpered. His friend snorted, derisive, and started to respond, but the words stuttered in his mouth. Jean was standing up.  
  
Andrew leaned back for the entertainment. Jean did not often rely on his height to intimidate, too proud—and too aware of where it could land him—to use that simplest of his assets, but when he did it was a sight to behold. His habitual detachment became a towering rage, not wild like most but focused completely on a single point. If that single point was you, well. Andrew had seen more than one man’s bowels betray him under pressure like that.  
  
“You should refer to him with the proper respect, Private,” Jean said. Five seconds ago he had been a shivering lump. Now he was a monolith. His voice was low, controlled, and deadly.  
  
The derisive man huffed and looked away. His friend seemed nearly to have passed out from the strain.  
  
“He’s waiting,” said Jean. Never had a voice sounded so much like a knell.  
  
“Sorry, Corporal Minyard,” the man muttered, finally. He twisted back around, huddling with the other soldier to whisper. Jean seemed to find that acceptable. He slowly bent himself back against Kevin’s side, wrapping the arms of the coats around him as he tried to get comfortable.  
  
Andrew was probably supposed to say thank you. It was hitting him that Jean had just defended him. It was unnecessary, and therefore presumptuous, and therefore unpleasant, and yet it was— _not_ unpleasant, at the same time. He would have to think on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Note:**
> 
> The winter of 1916-17 was an uncommonly cold one for France and Germany. The German potato harvest was largely lost, which in wartime led to widespread famine and resulting death among the German populace. The winter later gained the name Der Steckrübenwinter, or the Turnip Winter, because one of the only available sources of food was the Swedish turnip (which had been previously used as animal feed).
> 
> Conditions for the soldiers in the trenches were worse than miserable. Vehicles, clothing, food, bodies. . . everything froze. The “Highlanders” that Wymack mentions were outfitted with kilts, and the fabric froze so stiff that it cut the soldiers’ legs. Digging into the ground became nearly impossible, a serious problem as the main function of the trenches was to provide cover from machine gun fire.
> 
> There is a quote by NCO Clifford Lane:
>
>> The coldest winter was 1916-17. The winter was so cold that I felt like crying. In fact the only time… I didn’t actually cry but I’d never felt like it before, not even under shell fire. We were in the Ypres Salient and, in the front line, I can remember we weren’t allowed to have a brazier because it weren’t far away from the enemy and therefore we couldn’t brew up tea. But we used to have tea sent up to us, up the communication trench. Well a communication trench can be as much as three quarters of a mile long. It used to start off in a huge dixie,* two men would carry it with like a stretcher. It would start off boiling hot; by the time it got to us in the front line, there was ice on the top it was so cold.
> 
>   
> *a large iron pot; may refer specifically to the 12-gallon camp kettle used by the British Army.
> 
> The Christmas truce of 1914 (Weihnachtsfrieden for the Germans, Trêve de Noël for the French) occurred on and around the first Christmas of the Great War. Despite orders to the contrary many soldiers among the Western Front chose to lay down weapons and refuse to fight. There are widespread accounts of soldiers on either side celebrating with each other; singing carols across No Man’s Land, and in many cases coming up from their trenches to carouse, smoke, and exchange presents with one another. It was, and remains, a stunning example of what can be achieved by regular people who band together and choose humanity. 
> 
> If you’re looking for a movie to watch this weekend, I recommend the 2005 French film _Joyeux Noël_ , which was inspired by the 1914 truce. The film is based in part by first-person sketches of the event.


	9. Spike-Bozzled

* * *

**spike-bozzled /spɑɪk bɒz. əld/** **_adj._** first used to mean “to render a gun unusable;” came to mean “completely destroyed.” Usually used to describe aircraft.

* * *

  
A soldier was trained to get from undershorts to full kit in minutes. Flying through his buttons as Andrew jammed his feet into his boots, it didn’t seem fast enough. The Germans were coming, and fast.  
  
“Fuck!” Kevin swore, tangling his laces. He took a deep breath and yanked on them until they slipped free. Aaron and Jean were already pounding out to the boards.  
  
“Up! Up! Get ‘em up! Every man!” Wymack and other NCO’s were shouting, lining the men up on the firestep for a quick headcount before sending them over the top. A pair of shells whistled by overhead, and everyone instinctively ducked. They hit over by the aid center. Andrew spared an uneasy thought for Bee.

The late January snow was flitting down, making men sneeze as droplets from melting snowflakes trickled into their noses. The ground would be pure slush and ice. Andrew wondered how many would die from broken ankles sending them into shellholes before the German advance even got to them. He stuffed his hands in his armpits to warm them; they scraped against the frozen wool. Down the line a man was bent over coughing. Dirt spray from shellfire thudded over his head. He could barely hear the officers over the sound of explosions.  
  
“That’s it, boys! Up now! Over the bags! Give ‘em hell for your country!”  
  
Andrew hefted his rifle and turned to follow the order. Aaron beside him didn’t move. If Andrew was having trouble picking out Wymack’s whistle from the cacophony, Aaron had no chance. He bent and took Aaron by the elbow, leaning into his ear to shout. “Keep ignoring me later. We’re going over!”  
  
Aaron’s elbow fell from his grip.  
  
A cold twist soured Andrew’s belly. He dropped back to the firestep and took Aaron’s shoulders, turning his twin to face him. Aaron’s eyes were far-away. A barrage of shells hit nearby. Aaron covered his ears and started to curl downwards.  
  
Shit.  
  
Fuck!  
  
It was supposed to be Andrew, with the devils in his head! Not Aaron!  
  
“Come on!” Andrew shouted, seizing Aaron by the wrists and trying to drag him upward. Aaron shook his head and tucked his chin behind his knees, hiding his face. Another shell: Aaron flinched and started rocking back and forth. Andrew swore and yanked on Aaron’s arms, his collar, but Aaron refused to budge.

 _Take me instead, damn you!_ _Not him! NOT HIM!_  
  
“Andrew!” Kevin was behind him, trying to urge him over. “Leave him, dammit! He’ll be safer than you in a moment!”  
  
Andrew spun around, placing himself between his brother and Kevin, and drew his knife. “Up over the bags, Day,” he heard himself say, eerily calm. Shell. Aaron jerked, his helmet brushing the back of Andrew’s legs.  
  
“You’ll be court-martialed, you idiot!” Jean had appeared, hanging down with one arm and one knee already over the top. They all covered their heads at another spray of dirt. Muddy snow dripped down Andrew’s back. “Shove him towards the reserve trenches and go! _Allez-vous!”_

“No,” Andrew said slowly. The way before him was crystal-clear. “I’m going to take him to Neil. Have fun with your war, kiddos.”  
  
Kevin swore what was probably an impressively colorful insult that was swallowed in the boom from the next set of shells. Were they coming faster?  
  
Jean met Andrew’s eyes with a grim respect. “Leave it, Kev. He’s made up his mind.”  
  
Andrew nodded in thanks.  
  
With one final, rage-garbled swear, Kevin heaved himself up after Jean. Andrew saw their hands clasp together briefly before they disappeared into the killing fields. He stuck his knife in his belt and crouched to lift Aaron’s face. Aaron fought him, whimpering and shaking his head.  
  
“Hey,” Andrew said, in that calm voice that wasn’t his. “I’m getting you out of here.” He patiently unwrapped Aaron’s arms from his knees, blocking Aaron’s attempts to curl back into himself, and when Aaron refused to walk hoisted him over his shoulder, Aaron’s boots dragging. He turned and started towards the tunnel mouth.  
  
“What are you doing?” a sergeant shouted, pointing at them. Andrew raised a hand and pushed his helmet back so the soldier could see him roll his eyes.  
  
“Wymack’s sending us into the tunnels,” Andrew said, making sure to fill his voice with distaste. “Guess too many tunnellers got blown up last time, and we’re short enough to fit.”  
  
“Bastard,” the sergeant said, appeased. He clapped Andrew on the shoulder and climbed up over. A shell hit right near the front. Well, at least that sergeant wouldn’t be around to tell Wymack where Andrew had gone.  
  
Aaron didn’t want to go into the dark hole, but Andrew coaxed him, taking his hands and crawling in backwards. The ground trembled around them from explosions. Dirt shook free, hitting their helmets and shoulders. Placing Aaron’s arms around his neck, Andrew painstakingly turned around in the small space and began the trudge toward the town.  
  
Here was where he was grateful for his perfect memory. The tangle of tunnels was inscrutable to most except the tunnellers, and even they carried maps. But Andrew had walked this route many times before, and for him that was enough. A barrage of rats, squealing, fled across his boots. Andrew leaned towards the left, away from the shockwave of explosion that followed in their wake. He kept on. The darkness was absolute.  
  
Aaron’s weight was considerable, especially in full kit, but dwelling on it would do no good. Andrew focused on putting one foot in front of the other, hunched double to keep their heads from knocking the ceiling. In some places he was forced to crawl. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he got to a place he had to wriggle on his belly. Shove Aaron ahead of him and come afterwards?  
  
 _If being swallowed by the earth is terrible on the seashore, what is it in a cesspool?_  
  
A pile of dirt blocked the next turning. Andrew swore and unhitched Aaron so he could feel around. It must have been a small cave-in, shaken loose from the bombs. He didn’t fancy clearing it with his hands under this kind of time crunch. Sometimes diggers left tools behind, forgotten or because they didn’t feel like carrying them back up only to carry them back down again. Andrew hesitated, feeling the walls to make sure the turning was imprinted on his mind, and then continued straight. He ran his hands over the dirt to feel for a cache.  
  
A spark of light blinded him. Andrew blinked, clearing his vision, and found himself face-to-face with another man. The candle the man was holding didn’t give enough light to see his colors.  
  
Andrew’s heart hammered. The longer they stared at each other, frozen like rabbits, the longer Aaron was lying terrified in the dark tunnel behind him. The chance of the tunnels being blown up around them was ever-present. Andrew needed to make a decision, and he needed to make it now.  
  
“ _Hallo?_ ” He tried.  
  
The candle flickered. “ _Hallo_ ,” the other man said, relief evident in his voice. He continued in German, “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be laying the fuse on the other side!”  
  
Andrew shrugged, mind racing. He couldn’t go back for Aaron now and risk the German soldier finding him and killing him. There wasn’t enough room in the tunnel to go for his knife. He would have to follow the German until they reached a wider pocket, and then gut him quietly.  
  
On hands and knees, he followed the German soldier towards the German line, leaving Aaron—and the town—farther and farther behind him. As cold as the upper air was, it was warmer under the earth, especially with the exertion of struggling upward over rocks and mud. Rivulets of sweat ran down his back, his underarms, and from his hair down to sting his eyes. He could hear the German grunting ahead of him.  
  
Suddenly the German stopped. He put the candle out, and then while Andrew waited, choking on his heart, shuffled and fumbled around until, with a triumphant cry, he shoved up at the ceiling. It rose off like a bad roof. A trapdoor. The sound of battle screamed in with the pale sunlight.  
  
Andrew was fucked.  
  
There was no time to think. He surged out of the ground, dragging the German with him. The German yelled in confusion and then, as he saw Andrew’s uniform, betrayal. “You bastard! Sneaky English bastard! I’ll kill you!”  
  
Andrew went to draw his knife and found only an empty strap. It must have fallen out somewhere in the tunnel. The German soldier hadn’t met with the same trouble, coming at Andrew with the glint of steel. Andrew dodged to the left and straight into a tangle of barbed wire.  
  
The German paused, and then grinned, his white teeth ghoulish in his muddy face. He knew he had Andrew trapped. Barbed wire didn’t look like much, but get caught and it would cut you to ribbons trying to get free. Andrew struggled, the sweat freezing on his face, but his coat was stuck fast. The wire scraped at his hands and face. Cuts opened and then froze, crystals of blood shattering when he moved.  
  
“I’ll teach you to pretend to be a German,” the soldier said, stepping close. Andrew struggled harder, trying to muster up enough saliva to spit in his face, but his mouth was parched. The German tapped him in the nose with the knife and laughed when Andrew bared his teeth.  
  
Some men went blood-mad in battle. Andrew had seen it, had felt some of it himself. When the world was death around you, one way to survive was to become death yourself, taking joy in the way you destroyed people. Perhaps this man joked with his bunkmates back in the trenches, or wrote home to a pretty wife. That didn’t matter here. He likely wouldn’t remember what he had done, if he survived this, his own mind protecting him from the horrors of his hands. Andrew had often wished he were granted such a mercy.  
  
Now the only way to stop him was to kill him first.  
  
Andrew wrenched himself free of his coat as the German struck, the knife digging into his side and dragging as Andrew moved. It hurt, but Andrew had no time to think about that right now. Stepping into the blade, he jabbed his elbow at the German’s windpipe and then, when he fell back, locked his hands around his throat. The German fell backwards, Andrew on top of him, struggling and gagging. Andrew squeezed harder, jaw locked, ignoring the scratches as the German tried to get rapidly numbing fingers to wield the knife. Andrew didn’t stop after he went limp, mindful of a trick. He didn’t stop until he could no longer feel the German’s breath.  
  
Panting, Andrew crawled backwards. He took the German’s knife and tried to put it in the empty sheath. It didn’t fit, so Andrew kept it in his hand as he lowered himself back into the trapdoor and closed it over his head.  
  
He had no energy left to doubt himself. He followed his memory grimly, trusting it to lead him back to Aaron. Fortunately, there hadn’t been many turns in the German’s path. When he felt soft flesh under his hands he had to pause to make sure it was breathing. It was. He fumbled for the shape of cheeks, a nose, a chin.  
  
“Aaron?”  
  
“No, no,” Aaron whimpered. Andrew traced the chain of the necklace Aaron wore for Katelyn and hefted Aaron once more onto his back. The dirt gave way easily under his hands, or maybe it was just an easier sell this time, digging without a tool. His hands hit air. Still stale and underground, though. There was nothing to do but keep going. _Jean Valjean had resumed his march._  
  
Andrew was getting dizzy, his ears ringing. His limbs were sluggish. He forced them into motion. His grip on the knife kept slipping, so he felt for the edge of his boot and stuck it there. It scraped the side of his ankle as he walked.

Neil was outside his house, smoking and watching the battle. Dangerous. He should be underground. He saw Andrew coming and dropped the cigarette, his arms opening. “Andrew!”  
  
“It’s Aaron,” Andrew said, angling Aaron’s unresponsive face forward. “The shell-shock has him. Fuck!”  
  
“Andrew, you’re bleeding.”  
  
Andrew dragged Aaron up the rickety steps and set his shoulder against the door. It didn’t open. He tried again, and then again, until Neil shoved past him and unlocked it, opening it outwards. Andrew staggered in under Aaron’s weight. “Take him,” he said, shoving Aaron towards Neil.  
  
Neil wouldn’t. Instead he was reaching for Andrew, frowning. “Andrew—”  
  
“Goddammit!” Andrew shoved Aaron forward again. “Take him! He’s my brother, I promised I’d save him! Make him better, you fucking doctor! He’s my _brother!_ ”  
  
Aaron flinched and covered his face with his hands, shaking. Andrew growled.  
  
“Andrew. I think you’ve been shot.”  
  
“Stabbed,” Andrew said, touching his front absently “That doesn’t matter, look at Aaron—” his fingers were wet. He looked down. There was blood.  
  
The pain hit.  
  
Andrew fell to his knees, but the feeling of hitting the floor was numbness compared to the pain flaring in his stomach. He had never been in this much pain in his life. It was so much it didn’t make sense. His skin was clammy, sweating, and his stomach heaved. He tried to vomit but that made it worse.  
  
Neil was in front of him, helping him up, to the table. “ _Mame_ ,” Neil called. Andrew’s _mame_ wasn’t here, and good riddance. Oh, there was so much pain. He pressed his hands to his stomach, because surely he was ripped open, all his intestines hanging out. The edges of the room were dark. The table wavered. Andrew tried to steady it by biting in his cheek, but like falling the pain was too little in comparison. He was in pain. He tried to cast the loop of his mind out around the pain, to understand it, but every time he thought he had it turned out to be only a smaller part of the pain, and there was more around it, pulsing through him. He was screaming, maybe. Pain.  
  
Abby was in the room. He hadn’t noticed her enter. She was behind him. He was on the table, on his side. Shouldn’t he be on his back for a coffin? Oh, pain. He couldn’t breathe. His jaw was clenched so tightly he could feel the tendons in his neck popping. How was he not dead if he was in this much pain?  
  
Neil was in front of him, cupping his hands around Andrew’s face. “We need to sedate you to operate, Andrew. Can we?”  
  
He was in pain. Andrew tried to blink his eyes but he couldn’t tell if they moved. He tried to curl his legs up but it made the pain increase. He hadn’t known that was possible.  
  
“Andrew, it’s a gut wound, it will be so much easier if we knock you out. But I won’t without you telling me, I promised. Andrew, answer me.”  
  
He was in pain. Didn’t Neil understand? How could there be this much pain in the world? The world must be broken. The world had always been broken. Andrew felt all the pain of the broken world and then more.  
  
“Andrew.” Neil’s face swam; his cheeks drawn tight, his forehead all wrinkled up. His eyes were so blue. Andrew had never kissed him. “Just one word, Andrew. Yes or no.”  
  
Andrew lifted a hand and shoved it into Neil’s curls, twisting and dragging until Neil’s face was close to his. He put their mouths together. There. Oh. He was in pain.  
  
“Yes,” he said.  
  
He felt the needle go in. And then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Note:**
> 
> The use of tunnels in warfare has gone hand-in-hand with the use of siege, and has existed as long. Medieval tunnels might be large enough to allow pack animals to walk inside in order to carry out the excess dirt. In WWI, the tunnels were tight squeezes, and the “pack animals” were the infantry.
> 
> Listening for countermining operations coming towards you was essential for survival in the underground saps. Early methods included a metal pole with one end in the ground and the other held to the ear, and putting water in an empty biscuit tin to watch for ripples.
> 
> In 1915 a device called a geophone, which had a much wider range, began to be issued to tunnellers. The geophone consisted of a pair of wooden disks, each containing a center layer of mercury and mica, and connected via rubber tubes to stethoscopic earpieces. The tunneller would move the discs on the ground and listen through the earpieces until a sound was heard in equal intensity in both ears. The direction of the sound was calculated by a line perpendicular from a line bisecting the two discs, and that result was plotted on paper with other observations to give an exact location of the source of the sound.


	10. Strafe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional warnings.** this chapter begins with some description of Andrew’s childhood sexual abuse.

**PART IV: February—March 1917**

Now light the candles; one; two; there's a moth;  
What silly beggars they are to blunder in  
And scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame—  
No, no, not that,—it's bad to think of war,  
When thoughts you've gagged all day come back to scare you;  
And it's been proved that soldiers don't go mad  
Unless they lose control of ugly thoughts  
That drive them out to jabber among the trees.  
  


Now light your pipe; look, what a steady hand.  
Draw a deep breath; stop thinking; count fifteen,  
And you're as right as rain ...  
Why won't it rain? ...  
I wish there'd be a thunder-storm to-night,  
With bucketsful of water to sluice the dark,  
And make the roses hang their dripping heads.  
  


Books; what a jolly company they are,  
Standing so quiet and patient on their shelves,  
Dressed in dim brown, and black, and white, and green,  
And every kind of colour. Which will you read?  
Come on; O do read something; they're so wise.  
I tell you all the wisdom of the world  
Is waiting for you on those shelves; and yet  
You sit and gnaw your nails, and let your pipe out,  
And listen to the silence: on the ceiling  
There's one big, dizzy moth that bumps and flutters;  
And in the breathless air outside the house  
The garden waits for something that delays.  
There must be crowds of ghosts among the trees,—  
Not people killed in battle,—they're in France,—  
But horrible shapes in shrouds—old men who died  
Slow, natural deaths,—old men with ugly souls,  
Who wore their bodies out with nasty sins.  
  


* * *  
  


You're quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home;  
You'd never think there was a bloody war on! ...  
O yes, you would ... why, you can hear the guns.  
Hark! Thud, thud, thud,—quite soft ... they never cease—  
Those whispering guns—O Christ, I want to go out  
And screech at them to stop—I'm going crazy;  
I'm going stark, staring mad because of the guns.

  
—“Repression of War Experience,” Siegfried Sassoon

* * *

**strafe /streɪf/ _n._** heavy bombardment or attack. Taken from the German slogan “Gott Strafe England,” meaning “God punish England.”

* * *

  
His dreams were memories turned inside-out. They weren’t reality but that meant they were never ending, blurring together. There was someone on his bed and it was StevenSamuelHelenJesseDrake and he struck out at them but he couldn’t move and they kept coming. There were hands on him and he couldn’t struggle. _If you say please I’ll stop. If you say_ “Please,” Andrew begged. “Please, please—”  
  
But they didn’t stop, JesseStevenDrakeSamuelHelen beside him, on top of him, inside. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Andrew didn’t know much, but he knew this was wrong. He was seven, nine, nine again, eleven, thirteen and they wouldn’t stop. He would kill them if they would only stop.  
  
“Neil, Andrew, it’s Neil,” his hand was on someone’s face and he was too weak to punch it. There was scruff under his fingers. Andrew knew the scars on the hand holding his, the ones against his palm. He had felt them before. He opened his eyes and Neil was there. He was not. It was a lie. He was DrakeHelenSamJesseSteven and he would hurt him.  
  
“Please,” Andrew said. “Please, the dreams—”  
  
“It’s the morphine,” Neil said. “Everything we have will make you hallucinate, except for alcohol. And that won’t be enough for this kind of wound, Andrew, I’m sorry.”  
  
“No. I’m saying no, please. I can’t. I can’t dream anymore. Please.”  
  
“Okay,” Neil said. His brow was pinched, his mouth like eating prunes. “This—here. This is rum.” The cold rim of a bottle touched Andrew’s mouth. He could feel the pain waiting, ready to take him again. If he were stronger he would weather it, but he was afraid. Afraid to feel that agony again. He was disgusted with himself.  
  
“Drink,” Neil said. Andrew did.

  
  


He woke in pain. “Aaron,” he said, trying to get up. The pain made him fall back, and he bit down to keep the scream inside. His mouth was raw from biting he didn’t remember.  
  
“He’s downstairs. He’s safe.” Neil pressed Andrew’s hand to his scars. There was the lip of glass at Andrew’s mouth again. He couldn’t tell if the bottle was behind it. He was drunk and hungover at the same time, and in pain. Neil’s eyes were so blue they hurt to look at.

“Rum, not chloroform or anything else, I promise. Drink.”  
  
It tasted bitter.  
  
  
  
  


Andrew’s head was pounding when he opened his eyes. He stared up at ancient crossbeams, trying to work his muzzy brain through where he was. Once he’d managed to convince himself he wasn’t dreaming—probably—he tried to get up. A line of fire went through his abdomen, and he fell back to the bed with a hiss.  
  
To distract himself while he waited for it to subside, he turned his head to examine the room he could see without moving. He was right that he was in Neil’s house. What was surprising was that he was also in Neil’s room. There was the desk he remembered from asking for Neil’s certifications, months ago. There were the odd accoutrements of simple living. There was Abby’s bed. He was lying in Neil’s own, Andrew realized. Where was Neil sleeping? Surely not with _him_?  
  
Andrew wasn’t sure how the idea made him feel.  
  
Gray light filtered in through the cracked window. Eventually there was the creak of floorboards outside the door, and Abby entered, carrying a jug of water for the basin on a stand in the corner. When she saw that Andrew was awake she poured out a cup and took it over.  
  
“You must be thirsty.”  
  
Andrew hesitated. There was a more pressing need.  
  
“And that,” Abby said, with the hint of a smile. “May I?” She knelt and offered her arm.  
  
Andrew contemplated refusing, but he remembered sharply what had happened the last time he tried to move. With Abby’s help and many pauses to grit his teeth he managed to sit up and get to the pot. It was humiliating. A thought occurred.  
  
“When I was unconscious—”  
  
“It’s part of the job,” Abby said, no-nonsense.  
  
“Don’t tell me which one of you it was,” said Andrew. He didn’t think he’d be able to look at either Abby or Neil and know that it was them that had touched him while he was sleeping. Even to help him.  
  
The tube from the IV attached to his arm was annoying, but Abby was well-versed in helping patients in and out of bed, and she kept it from tangling as she levered Andrew back down. Andrew was sweating by the end of it, nauseated with pain. Abby tutted and fetched a towel to wipe his forehead. Andrew bore it with ill grace. He was so helpless, like this. Anyone could come in and hurt him.  
  
Case in point: when he came up from being distracted by the pain, he found Abby measuring a white powder on a scale. He recoiled and got another wash of pain for his trouble. “I’m not taking any drugs, I told you.”  
  
“This is just aspirin,” Abby said. “Avram’s been negotiating with the German supply line. He managed to get some. It will dull the pain without giving you nightmares.”  
  
“The German supply line?”  
  
“Did you think yours were the only trenches he visited?”  
  
Andrew felt, irrationally, jealous. He breathed out through his nose. “I’ll wait for him to administer it.”  
  
“That’s not going to be easy,” Abby warned, though she set down the packet of powder.  
  
“Nothing is,” said Andrew.

  
  
  
Half an hour later, Andrew was thinking furious curses at Neil for taking so long. He did not regret refusing Abby’s dosing—he still did not completely trust her, and when had he started trusting Neil to that degree?—and besides, regret was pointless. It changed nothing. Andrew tried to entertain himself by thinking up words for the shockingly ugly color of the wallpaper, but he couldn’t suppress a swell of relief when he heard Neil’s voice downstairs.  
  
Abby spoke to him, and then there was the rapid tip-tap of someone running up the stairs on their toes. Neil burst through the door. “You’re awake!”  
  
“Obviously,” Andrew said. Neil was pink-cheeked from the cold, and brought with him the smell of the fresh outdoors. Andrew made his next words biting. “I hear you’ve been consorting with the enemy.”  
  
“Your enemy, not mine,” Neil said, unbothered. “My mother says you wouldn’t let her give you medication.”  
  
Andrew raised his eyebrows. “Your mother?”  
  
“Yes. You never know who’s listening,” Neil said, gesturing to the door. So, he wasn’t pretending nothing had happened. He went to the scale Abby had abandoned and set about preparing a new dose. Andrew eyed it warily. He also eyed Neil’s ass, because Andrew was still, against all odds, human.  
  
“Your _mother_ said that’s aspirin and not something worse.”

“It is,” Neil promised. Andrew’s head knew not to trust a liar, but his body relaxed into the mattress. Traitor. “It’s not as good for pain as morphine, but it’s something, and you won’t be dead drunk.”  
  
“ _Dead_ drunk.”  
  
Neil gave him an innocent look. “Is that not the turn of phrase?”  
  
It was entirely the wrong time to feel pleased.  
  
Neil knelt by Andrew’s bed. His own bed. By Andrew, in his bed. “Ready?”  
  
“’If it were done when ‘tis done, then ‘twere well it were done quickly,’” Andrew quipped. He opened his mouth and let Neil pour the powder in. His tongue cringed at the taste, and he gulped half the cup of water Neil thrust into his hand. When it was down he displayed the clean flat of his tongue for Neil’s inspection.  
  
Neil didn’t give Andrew’s tongue the proper consideration. Instead he stood, rocking backwards to get his feet under him, not forwards, which would hang him over Andrew. Andrew was, stupidly, grateful. He did not like being trapped in bed.  
  
“Nothing’s happening.”  
  
“It’ll take a few minutes,” Neil said, flicking his slender fingers. “Be patient. I’ve got a few things to do in here anyway.” He set aside the measuring paper and made his way over to the desk, shuffling several documents loudly.  
  
Andrew itched to ask him what they were. He beat down the impulse and forced himself to examine the rest of the room, though his gaze kept pulling back to Neil like a compass. Waiting was insufferable.  
  
“My brother,” he said, when the urge to claw out his own eyeballs became too much.  
  
Neil looked up. He was still squinting from peering at the papers, and his face smoothed to focus on Andrew. “Downstairs. There’s another man in a similar state, so I’ve put them together. Maybe one can help the other.”  
  
“French? German?”  
  
“Does it matter?”  
  
“I’d say it matters to several thousand pounds of artillery unit.”  
  
“Which neither of us are. That does remind me, there’s someone who wants to see you.” He raised his voice. “You can come in!”  
  
The door creaked open. “Andrew?”  
  
Andrew tried to cover his eyes with his elbow but the movement pulled at his abdomen and he let his arm fall back to the bed with a groan. “Oh, no.”  
  
“Andrew!” Nicky scooted through the door, maneuvering backwards as he pulled himself along with his arms. He moved impressively quickly over to Andrew’s beside and knelt, hovering. “Oh my God. Oh, my God! I thought you were dead! I want to hug you but I won’t. I know you don’t like that and I’d only ruin your stitches and then all of your guts would be all over again and it would be horrible. Oh my God.”  
  
“Hello, Nicky,” Andrew said, put upon. Nicky’s concern was gratifying as much as it was annoying.  
  
Nicky’s hands fluttered in the air over Andrew’s body, but he eventually contented himself with fussing with the edge of the sheet. “You didn’t see yourself. You were—there was so much blood. You’re going to send me to an early grave, pulling shit like that.”  
  
“Aren’t we already all headed for an early grave?”  
  
Nicky frowned, but he was distracted by Neil coughing. “Oh! You should’ve heard dear Doctor Josten, here. He insisted you be taken up to this room. He’s been spending all the time he doesn’t need for other patients sitting by your bedside, trying to keep you from _dying after surgery_.”  
  
Andrew didn’t want to examine how that made him feel. “With the proper care, the survival rate for gut wounds is eighty to ninety percent.”  
  
“As if the odds have ever stopped you.” Nicky gave a wry smile that softened into tenderness. It was so different from the grimaces of the trenches. Andrew had missed Nicky’s soft heart (not that he would admit it, not that he would not try to overcome such softness). He had missed Nicky, too, all of his blathering and clowning and making Andrew angry when Nicky tried to pass his rations off to everyone else even though any fool in a pasture could see he was just as hungry as the rest of them.

For the first time, Andrew wondered what Nicky had been like before his father had kicked him out.  
  
Aaron would know.  
  
“Aaron,” Andrew said. “He’s downstairs?”  
  
Nicky pressed his lips together. “He’s resting.”  
  
“What aren’t you telling me?”  
  
“It’s not like that. It’s difficult to explain. He just _sits_ there, but he’s not sick, or wounded. He won’t get up unless you move him, and he screams if you put out the light.”  
  
Andrew knew that a mind did not heal itself in a day and yet—he had gotten Aaron out. Why was that not enough? Why was _nothing ever enough?_ “Has he said anything?”  
  
“Not out loud. He sometimes asks for—” Nicky made the arcing K of the familiar sign he and Aaron used when they talked about Katelyn. Andrew stuck to more formality.  
  
“Andrew needs to rest,” Neil said, standing. He made his way over to the door and held it open, an obvious dismissal. Nicky made a good-natured rude gesture but obligingly scooted out the door, though not without several worried looks back at Andrew. The latch clicked against the doorframe as he left.  
  
“I’ve been trying to get rid of him for months,” Andrew said hoarsely. He was thirsty, but the thought of trying to drink again seemed an impossible effort. While he and Nicky had been talking the painkillers had begun to kick in. The relief was so great he could feel his eyelids stinging with exhaustion.  
  
“Liar,” Neil said. Maybe Andrew was already asleep, but he thought he saw Neil smile.

  
  


So began the endless task of trying to sit still while his body knit itself back together. The first week Andrew spent mostly sleeping, and having his bodily functions tended to by either Neil or Abby. By the second week he was well enough to be bored. Neil had him propped half-sitting with a pillow under his knees so that the wound could drain, a disgusting procedure that Andrew had seen on his previous visits here but hadn’t had the pleasure of experiencing himself. The sterile tubes coming out of him, laid against the stark white bedsheets, reminded him of worms burrowing from his abdomen.  
  
Nicky came to visit him often, bringing gossip about the household mechanisms and the people who gummed them up.  
  
“Lewis failed his short-arm inspection,” Nicky murmured in conspiratorial tones as he ostensibly read a book on anatomy—whom Nicky was fooling, in Neil and Abby’s oft-deserted room, Andrew didn’t know. “Seems he’s been sticking it in the wrong places.”  
  
“Is there a right place?”  
  
“Hush,” Nicky said. Andrew supposed he had a point.  
  
With his new-found introspection, Andrew wondered if Nicky had ever resorted to that kind of work. He stopped the thought. Whether Nicky had or not didn’t matter. It wasn’t Andrew’s truth to know.  
  
“Erik made roasted rat for me for dinner, and I liked it,” Nicky confessed at another time.

“Those rats ate your sworn brethren,” Andrew said with amusement.

“You know, they ate the Germans, too.”  
  


* * *

  
Another memory:

Renee liked to go walking, endless circles around the same bank of trenches, up Arlington street and across St. Martin’s Lane and down into the shellhole that had been irreverently dubbed Trafalagar Square and filled in with tent-covered general stores. Andrew found himself tagging along. He told the others it was because the only person who could hold decent conversation was Private Walker.  
  
Today Renee was wearing her new socks, and kept stopping every few steps to adjust them. They were beautiful things, dyed bright colors. Allison had sent a whole box of them, all pink and orange and blue and green, so brilliant in the dull brown of the trenches that Andrew’s eyes watered looking at them. They were store-made and embroidered around the cuff and completely, utterly useless.  
  
“She means well,” Renee had said, unpacking them. “Oh, isn’t this a lovely maroon? The fabric’s so soft, feel.”  
  
Because of Renee’s distraction they were making the rounds slower than usual, Andrew for once having to stop and wait for Renee instead of the other way around. Andrew took the excuse to shake out the pins-and-needles in his arm—he must have pinched something in his neck hauling boxes the other day, because his kit had a new habit of cutting off limb circulation—and examine Renee with lofty judgement.  
  
“Those’ll get you killed when our Easterly friends attack,” Andrew said, as Renee wiggled back into her boot. “One moment of distraction to fix your stockings and boom, right through the important bits.”  
  
“I like them,” Renee said loyally. With that poker face she’d make a killing at cards, if Andrew could ever manage to tempt her into the sin of gambling. It was a longstanding argument. Andrew waved it away with the cigarette smoke and took up the march again once Renee was rearranged enough to continue.

“Heard Seth defended your honor last night,” Renee said, skipping a little over a doubtful board.  
  
Andrew grunted. “Not mine specifically. War orphans. Or orphans in wartime. It was hard to make out which.”  
  
Renee made an encouraging noise. She wanted Andrew and Seth to get along. It wasn’t that Andrew held any particular hatred for the man, and would acknowledge that he even at times had a mote of substance in the slurry of his words. But Seth was so. . . angry. All the time. Andrew knew he’d been that angry as a younger man, but he couldn’t imagine it now. It seemed so exhausting. And what difference would it make? Neither king nor kaiser would hear a word of Seth’s fervent ranting, and they wouldn’t give a rat-loving fuck besides.  
  
A messenger raced through from the other direction, feet clattering against the damp wood. Renee pressed herself obligingly into the mud to let her squeeze past, and gave a pointed look at Andrew until he did the same.  
  
“Dammit,” Renee said when the two of them moved back onto the duckboards again. “One moment.” She bent to untie her laces for the umpteenth time.  
  
“Why would you stay with a girl who gives you such a worthless gift?” Andrew asked. He dug up a handful of mud and rolled it between his palms, idly watching it crumble. “I wouldn’t trust her judgement on anything after that. She’s probably sealed up all your windows and made the house into a bath for her to swim in because she thinks that she’s a mermaid.” He tossed the clump of mud into the air and leaned away from the falling spatter.  
  
“Don’t be rude. Not to her.”  
  
Andrew raised both hands up by his ears in a placating gesture.  
  
It took Renee until she was finished fixing her sock and was re-tying her boots to come up with an answer to his question. Andrew gave her the time, as he didn’t have anywhere he was required to be at the moment. With a last, firm tug at the double knot, Renee stood and tilted her head to meet Andrew’s eyes.  
  
“There are a lot of reasons,” she said. “I don’t think most of them are right to tell you, though, not right here. Some of them I’ve only told Allie. Some of them I’ve told nobody but myself. Hm.” She lifted her hat and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, thinking. Her hair was longer than military standard, but Wymack had yet to take her to task her for it.  
  
“I’m better, when she’s with me,” Renee said at length. “Which is strange, because she’s one of the only people who doesn’t make me feel I have to be. And because she doesn’t, I want to be. It’s a kind of a circle.” She wove her fingers together and smiled, gazing off at something Andrew couldn’t see. “She gave me these silly, impractical socks because she thought I’d like them. Even though we’re in the middle of a war, even though I may be shot or blown to pieces tomorrow and she hasn’t seen me for months, she saw something pretty in a shop and bought it for me. She keeps me human, I suppose. Or maybe she’s teaching me how in the first place.”  
  
Andrew cleared his throat. His fingers twitched for another cigarette, or a gun. “She’s a sweet little miss then, your Allison.”  
  
Renee came back to him, blinking and letting out a short laugh. “Oh, shit no. Allie’s got a tongue sharper than a surgeon’s knife. She’d go toe to toe with you on your worst days and come out the winner.”  
  
That was an insult if Andrew had ever heard one. He leaned over and punched Renee in the shoulder. “Want to bet?”  
  
“Don’t you start, you heathen.”  
  
“Whatever you say, Mam’selle Faust. It’s only a matter of time.”  
  


* * *

  
Andrew was not ignorant of the fact he had taken residence in Neil’s bed. He selfishly didn’t bring it up. Neil had been right that Andrew would not have done well surrounded by other sleeping bodies. And he did not relish the concept of sleeping on the floor. Maybe if he weren’t wounded he would be able to stand a bedmate, but injury keeping him bedridden brought memories to the surface.

Neil now slept beside his fake-mother, back-to-back. Abby’s cot really wasn’t big enough, but they squeezed by dint of lying on their sides and both being skinny motherfuckers. Andrew hadn’t truly appreciated how absurd two people to one of the tiny mattresses looked until he happened to wake in the middle of the night and see for himself.  
  
It might not have been the pain that woke him, but now that he was awake Andrew felt it keenly. He hissed through his teeth, quietly, and reached for his torch. The pain had receded to a level that it was only an inconvenience, and despite the combined promises of both his doctors, he remained convinced his brain was fuzzier under analgesics. Now sleep was already a fading spirit, and there was no point in attempting it again while he was in this much discomfort. The torchlight jittered as it came on. The battery needed replacing. Andrew set the problem aside for another time.  
  
Abby’s snores didn’t decrease in volume. Before Andrew had turned on the torch, the room had been wholly dark, the cloud-covered night offering no glimmer of light. Andrew had intended to reach for a cigarette, but he was drawn to the shadowed lumps on the other cot. Cautiously, he skated the circle of torchlight close enough to the footboard to cast a reflective glow over its two inhabitants.  
  
Abby was stretched out, but Neil curled in on himself, facing the wall. His hands were knotted in the covers. Andrew considered shining the light directly onto his face, to see it better, but that would likely wake him up and then Andrew would have to cease his secretive perusal. In the faint rime of light he allowed himself, Neil’s hair looked black. His eyebrows were drawn. What dreams, Andrew thought, plagued a man who could saw limb from body multiple times a day without blinking an eye?  
  
Neil had the corner of the blanket drawn up to his mouth like a child’s gesture of comfort, but the rest of it had fallen down to his waist, leaving only the thin sheet covering his torso. Unconsciously Neil shifted, rolling slightly onto his back before being stayed by Abby’s shoulder. His chest was unbound for sleep, Andrew realized. The enormity of the trust Neil was offering him, by being so undone in the same room, made Andrew’s hand spasm on the torch. He needed to break something. He needed to get out of bed, gut wound be damned, and dip his fingertips into the hollow of Neil’s throat. Andrew turned off the torch and set it to the side of the mattress, staring at the place he knew his knees were in the darkness.  
  
The next day he asked Nicky to have Erik bring up another cot for Neil. Erik had learned the house by sound and feel since his blindness had been proven to be lasting. He was used now mainly for his farmer’s strength, carrying boxes and equipment where it was needed. Nicky had expressed enough fervent appreciation for rippling arm muscles to last the next fifty years.  
  
“I thought you’d have to wait until someone died,” Andrew said, when Erik came up the stairs fifteen minutes later, a medical cot carried comfortably under his arm. The blankets and a sadly flattened pillow were draped over his other.

“It’s mine,” Erik said cheerfully, letting Nicky direct him to an open stretch of floor. He set down the bedding and began unfolding the cot, feeling out the hinges with sure fingers.  
  
Nicky scooted over and thumped his calf against Erik’s foot. “ _Erik._ Where will you sleep?”  
  
“Well,” Erik said, drawing the word out. He smiled, suddenly, that not-for-a-war smile, brighter now that he’d healed as much as he would, dimples seeming deeper with his stubble. “I thought I might share with my sympathetic bunkmate.”  
  
His cousin should learn how to control his reactions better, thought Andrew. He sounded like a squashed cat.  
  


  
  


If the worst part about healing was being confined to bed, and the second worst was the pain, the third was the inescapable boredom.  
  
Andrew’s notebook had been in his greatcoat, and therefore was stuck in the barbed wire in No Man’s Land. He pestered Abby until she found a replacement for him, a tiny thing bound in brown canvas. The first few pages had scribbled notes on them in German, lecture notes, it looked like. Andrew left them there and set about recreating what he’d lost.  
  
He’d spent enough time thinking through his poetry that he could remember each poem perfectly, so that wasn’t the trouble. The poems were sterile on the page without the scribbles and erasings of their creation. The book itself was too clean, unblemished by mud and unscratched by bayonet. It didn’t mean anything. Andrew could beat up this book himself, of course, take a knife to the edges, but it would be pointless because it would be a lie.  
  
After he’d copied the poems he felt like keeping he started to fill up the remaining pages with sketches of the things in the room. Abby’s shawl on the back of the closet door was a frequent subject, because it was directly in Andrew’s line of sight and had a new pattern of folds every time Abby replaced it there. A spider that had found shelter from the winter cold and was making a web between two of the exposed studs in the wall gave Andrew an afternoon’s worth of employment, until the spider decided to explore the big creature on the medical cot and Andrew flung it away from him, skin crawling. The broken window pane got a whole artistic series.  
  
Drawing was not Andrew’s chosen artistic medium, so he didn’t worry much about his skill. He did note considerable improvement due to his sustained practice, and when he filled up the notebook he decided to ask Abby for another one. He sat in bed, drumming his fingers on his thigh impatiently as he waited to be checked on. After several minutes it occurred to him that he could try to get a notebook himself.  
  
Neil’s desk was on the other side of the room, but the room was not large. Holding his breath, Andrew carefully levered himself up with his arms and swung his legs down to the floor one at a time. It was good to feel solid floor under his feet again. The backs of his knees and the bottoms of his feet had been cramping, with Andrew’s sustained bed stay, something Andrew had never considered being a thing that could happen. When his feet were steady enough he pushed himself over them.  
  
His abdomen was not happy with this choice to become mobile. Andrew hadn’t thought he used his belly muscles much while walking, but he was learning his error. Andrew clenched his hands tightly and counted backwards from ten, in English and then in German. Briefly he considered giving it up and getting back into bed, but then there would be no point to this in the first place, would there. He took a step.  
  
Inching across the room was tortuous. Andrew had to stop three times to have a breather, and it was like he’d forgotten how to bend his knees—he waddled in a parody of a goosestep, his calves aching sharply. Finally he reached the desk and leaned against it, panting. Sweat was itching at his hairline.  
  
When he’d regained the ability to breathe he made his way slowly around to the back of the desk, clutching at the edge to hold himself up. There were numerous drawers on this side, and Andrew stared at them for a long moment before his knees started to buckle and he set himself as gently as he could down on the floor. His abdomen didn’t like that, either.  
  
At least the desk wasn’t too tall. Small mercies, indeed. Andrew could reach the drawers with a minimum of stretching. He started with those closest, yanking them out so the slides rattled, and groped around inside. The top left held papers: nothing interesting, Andrew saw, dropping them one by one to the floor as he flipped through them. They looked like mainly patient and supply lists, the ones at the bottom in Neil’s round handwriting and the ones nearer the top in Nicky’s aristocratic script. The drawer underneath that held a box of pens and some heavy medical texts, but neither notebook nor legal pad.

The bottom drawer was the biggest, and caused Andrew some trouble to open—it was stuck, and as soon as Andrew exerted strength to open it a twinge zapped across his stitches—but at last there was something of interest. A rectangular box, dull green metal, was scooted to the back corner of the drawer as if it were hiding. Andrew tried to open it and found it locked. He was a fair lockpick, but there was nothing around to use as a tool. Andrew decided to keep an eye out for a hairpin or bit of wire as he searched the rest of the desk, and come back to it.  
_  
Secrets upon secrets, doctor._  
  
He started with the bottom drawer on the right side, dragging himself closer with as little stomach exertion as possible, which meant he heard the nails in the drawer creaking as he pulled against it. Inside was more tubing, like the ones that Neil had removed from Andrew’s wound site, as well as some bulbous stoppered glassware and a tube-splitter of dull brass. Andrew flicked the last with a fingernail and listened to the dull clank. There was a place to connect the tubing on the top—no, looking at the graded side, the bottom, of the glass bulbs. Andrew reached in and hefted one in his hand, smearing some of the wood dust off the side.  
  
Well. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do.  
  
He had put together an artistic, if proportionally improbable, representation of human virility and was working on an accompanying instructional diagram when Neil walked into the room. He looked expectantly at his bed, and froze when he saw Andrew not there. Slowly, he turned around, hands rising to ward against a blow from an unseen assailant, until he saw where Andrew had sequestered himself behind the desk.  
  
“What are you _doing?”_  
  
“Pissing in your textbooks. Careful,” He said, but Neil hadn’t touched him, though he’d scurried across the room fast enough and nearly skidded on one of the scattered papers as he did. Neil squinted his eyes at him and knelt, hands hovering over Andrew’s bandaged stomach.  
  
“I need to check to see if you’ve reopened anything.”  
  
“I think I’d have noticed.”  
  
“Like you noticed yourself bleeding all over Renee’s tunnels?”  
  
Andrew clenched his jaw. The shirt he wore was unbuttoned, no point in closing it when Neil and Abby would only have to open it again to reach his bandages. He held his arms up and let Neil poke at him, biting his tongue to keep from reacting when Neil hit a particularly tender spot.  
  
“You’re lucky,” Neil said finally. “Everything still feels intact.”  
  
Andrew snorted. _Lucky_ was not the descriptor he’d have chosen for himself.  
  
Neil clearly wanted to force Andrew back to bed, and Andrew was exhausted—the brief trip across the room had taken the wind out of him, and his back ached from bending over and snooping. The thought of returning to his stationary languishing, though, was abhorrent.  
  
He leaned forward, ignoring the pain and Neil’s disapproving exclamation, and groped for the drawer with the metal box in it. It was easy to tell when Neil realized what he was reaching for. His hands tensed on Andrew’s belly, prickling with the energy to run. When Andrew tried to pick the box up, biting back a curse from the exertion—he was useless like this, he might as well throw open his arms and yell for anybody to have at it—Neil moved, but not away. Instead he bent over the drawer and picked up the box himself, settling it in his lap with a protective hand on the lid.  
  
“Well?” Andrew said. Secrets always tasted sticky-sweet, aching at his back teeth. Whether they went down like milk or like glue depended on the secret. Usually it was the second.  
  
On the train, they had given the starveling children a cup of milk every day for _proper nourishment_. Andrew had learned not to drink it unless he saw the cow it had come from. Boracic acid could hide the smell when it went sour, but it wouldn’t save you from puking your guts out.  
  
“You can’t tell anyone,” Neil said.  
  
Andrew spread his arms. “Who would I tell?”  
  
“Nicky,” said Neil. He gave Andrew a look. “Aaron.”  
  
For a moment Andrew could feel the knife again, twisting. “You could always kill me.”  
  
“No, I couldn’t,” Neil said, and while Andrew was coping with _that_ , he took a tiny key from his breast pocket and opened the box. Inside were more papers, but these were no scribbled itineraries.  
  
At least five different passports were bundled in a length of string on top of what looked like a pile of birth certificates. Andrew saw newspaper clippings, carefully underlined with a heavy pen. A stack of photographs had fallen out of their envelope and were scattered across the contents of the box. Andrew pinched one between his fingers and held it up to the light. Neil didn’t try to stop him.  
  
A severe-looking woman stared back at him, pale hair parted down the center. She had her hand on a little boy’s shoulder, also gazing solemnly at the camera. “My cousin,” Neil said. “Sometimes they don’t believe you, at the border. It helps to have a family photo. The resemblance isn’t so unbelievable between us.”  
  
The woman had Neil’s sharp cheekbones, and though softer Andrew could see the shadow of Neil’s jaw in her own. He dropped the photograph to the floor with the earlier discarded papers.  
  
“Neil Josten wasn’t the first time you changed your name.”  
  
Neil’s fingers curled around the edge of the box, denting against the sharp metal corner. “My father wouldn’t have let me go to medical school. I told him I was touring with friends. By the time he got suspicious I had graduated and was working at a hospital in Munich. Abby’s village wasn’t my first choice, but at least it was difficult to follow me there—I thought. The only place less likely is in the middle of a war.”  
  
He was looking at Andrew like he trusted him, like Andrew didn’t now have the power to trample this fake life he’d built into the ground. Well, how much worse could it get, than the edge of the Western Front? How terrible was Neil’s father, that this was preferable? Andrew knew such a thing was possible: he’d been at the mercy of _fathers_ , before he’d learned to carry knives. If Neil survived this war (if any of them could), he would flip tail up and disappear to another remote and salted locale, and then another, and another, spending his life in lies and fearfulness. Eventually, he would stumble, exhaustion or overconfidence; and then it would be over. Wasted. All that skulking for nothing.  
  
Somehow, foolishly, Andrew had forgotten that Neil would leave him.  
  
( _You’re mine to protect,_ he had told Kevin. But what use was Andrew when he could hardly walk across a room?)  
  
“If you try to keep me in bed, I will get up again and ruin your hard work,” he said. He felt gravel in his throat. He had practice in not sounding like it.  
  
“About that. I’ve got an idea.”  
  


  
  
  
“Absolutely not,” Andrew said.  
  
“I won’t drop you, on my honor.” Erik crouched deeper and held out his arms. “Think, you can get downstairs!”  
  
Andrew curled his lip and then, because Erik couldn’t see it, stomped his heel on the floor. Without shoes on it didn’t make a very satisfying thump. “No. Figure out something else.”  
  
“The other choice is you can have someone hobble along as your crutch everywhere,” Neil said. “Mister Klose is the only one I trust to be strong enough to carry you.”  
  
“Fine,” Andrew said. “I pick you. You still need an assistant for surgery.”  
  
“Erik does that too,” Nicky piped up. Andrew wasn’t sure why he was here, much less why he was talking, and glared to tell him so. Nicky ignored him.  
  
“The shapes of the handles are different once you get used to them,” Erik explained, making a pinching motion in the air. “And I lay them out in a grid, besides. The last two surgeries, Doctor Josten did not have to correct me at all.”  
  
“Smart _and_ handsome,” Nicky said in sign. Andrew told him to stick it somewhere even Erik would struggle to reach. Nicky didn’t even have the grace to look intimidated.  
  
Neil came forward, placing himself between Andrew and Erik and leaning so that the wayward curls on his forehead brushed against Andrew’s. “I want to help,” he said quietly. “You can lean against me to go down the stairs, but I can’t be there all the time. I have to move around too much. You’d have to sit with the others in the parlor.”  
  
Andrew looked away, jaw clenching. Neil knew he couldn’t do that. Not until he had the strength to shove them all off him if they tried anything funny.  
  
“I’m sorry—”  
  
“Don’t.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
They stood there, faces turned away from each other. Andrew heard the popping of Erik’s knees as he stood and let Nicky murmur excuses for his difficult cousin.  
  
Now that he had proved he was able to get out of bed, Andrew didn’t know how to explain the need in him to not return to convalescence. A large part of it was the fear of what memory had taught him, true. Yet there was another part, twisting uncomfortably under his breastbone, that rejected the idea of lying abed while Neil—and Abby, and Nicky and all right, Erik—were working. It wasn’t balanced. He was a grown man, not a child. He could pull his own weight.  
  
_“Army men.”_  
  
Andrew looked up, sharply; it was lucky Neil did so at the same time, or they would have knocked skulls. Abby stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, an exasperated smile dancing about her mouth.  
  
Nicky was the first to recover. “What about us?”  
  
“Nothing except that none of you have any brains. You,” she said, pointing to Andrew. “Can you cook?”  
  
So Andrew found himself, after a harrowing trip down the rickety stairs—leaning against Neil, as promised, though at the end it was closer to Neil trying to pretend Andrew wasn’t crushing him under his weight—ushered into the small back room by the door that Abby had emerged from on that Friday so many months before.

Immediately Andrew realized that it had been repurposed as the kitchen, the original having been taken over for an operating theatre. There were boxes and tins of canned food on the shelves, a meager amount that looked generous when stuffed into the tiny space. An ancient cast-iron stove took up most of the floor, wood stacked neatly beside it. The handles on the lone pot and the age-stained kettle had been worn down to shapeless lumps, but when Andrew turned them to inspect their bottoms, they seemed serviceable.  
  
“I tried your cousin in here before I set him to the accounts,” Abby said. She knelt and began to add wood to the cavity in the stove. The door had broken both its hinges and had to be propped gingerly on a decorative ridge of metal to be closed. “He kept throwing things away. You do not throw any part of food away, no matter how useless you think it is, until you check with me first, do you understand?”  
  
“I’m not stupid,” Andrew said, scathing.  
  
Abby either didn’t pick up on his tone or didn’t care about it. “Then prove it to me.”  
  
What Abby didn’t understand was that while Nicky had learned something of poverty after his parents had turned him out onto the streets, Andrew had had it as a companion his entire life. He knew how to save the green tops of carrots and the papery outer layers of the onions and cook them slow overnight for a soup stock. He knew how to pound the grains with the bottom of a wooden spoon to break the hard outsides and make them fill more of the pot. He knew how to wrap old bread in a damp rag and put it in the oven so it wouldn’t break your teeth. And he knew when there was nothing else at all, hot water could trick your belly into thinking it had something in it, even if only for a few hours.

He could tell he’d impressed Abby when she began letting him help her cook for the Friday celebrations. The rules on Friday were different and often, Andrew thought, bizarre. There always needed to be bread. There couldn’t be any meat— except that there had been in the past, there was just the wrong kind of meat available now? The critera escaped Andrew. And when Andrew had found a chunk of hard cheese in a new patient’s kitbag, Abby had barred him from taking it into the room with the stove.  
  
“It’s just cheese,” Andrew said, waving it in Abby’s face.

Abby had her hands on her hips, leaving floury white fingerprints up the sides of her apron. “Then it can be cheese tomorrow. There’s not enough food to keep the proper rules in this house, but for one day a week I’ll have a kosher kitchen.”  
  
Andrew had been rather proud of himself for what he’d thought was an excellent find. “You’re the only one who cares. Even Neil—”  
  
“Avram,” Abby said, “does not always understand what matters.” She sighed and deflated, wiping her hands on her pockets. “Just put it on the shelf in the hall. It will keep until Sunday.”  
  
Andrew did so, sullenly. From his chair he could only reach the lowest shelf. Abby would just have to deal with that.  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Abby said. “It’s twenty-five hours.”  
  
“Like anyone’s going to find out if you do eat it,” Andrew said. “I bet your God doesn’t even want to see you here. All this mud and all these rotting feet.”  
  
Abby’s eyes sharpened. “You do the right thing only when someone’s watching?”  
  
“Yes. Same as everybody else.”  
  
“So I should be worried about how you’re treating Avram when you’re alone in the room together.”  
  
Andrew’s head snapped up, mouth opening to protest. Under Abby’s knowing look he felt the back of his neck heating.  
  
“I may be old, but I’m not stupid. I trust you,” Abby said. Andrew had never considered that phrase could feel threatening, especially not from a woman thirty years his elder covered in baking ingredients. “I trust you not only to know the right thing, but to do it as best you can. That’s the way any of this, this kitchen, this hospital, can work. _Kenen toyre iz nit keyn shter tsu an aveyre._ It doesn’t matter if you know what you’re supposed to do if you do the opposite as soon as everyone leaves the room. That’s how society crumbles.”

“You call this shithole a society? I think any real society needs at least a market. And a public bathroom,” Andrew said, mostly to be difficult. It helped him ignore the squirming feeling in his chest, the kind he hadn’t felt since he was younger than seven.

Abby stared at him. And then, to Andrew’s astonishment, she laughed and snapped her fingers under his chin. “You’re smart,” she said. “We’re still not eating the cheese. Come put the soup pot on the stove. You can grumble at me once you have your hands busy, and I can grumble back.”

  
  
  
  
There was another thing he knew, that Nicky wouldn’t, but that Abby he saw now had begun as soon as she had moved to this doomed village in the middle of the modern-day reckoning. People who had money thought that people who didn’t worked in one of two ways. Either the gracious charity of the rich changed their lives, and they fell to their knees rejoicing, or they worked hard and saved their pennies until they could afford a better condition. Both of these were nonsensical.  
  
The pity of spare change was inconsistent. The rich didn’t care that the pittance they’d tossed your way could at best afford food for an evening, and you’d be hungry again when they passed tomorrow. No, they had done their part for the poor, and the lot of you were interchangeable anyway, a mass of huddled figures that only existed to make them feel grateful for what they had got.  
  
Working hard was even worse. There was no use when the bosses knew how desperate you were. They strung you along on crumbs and credit until you were even poorer than when you had begun. At the end of it you looked down and found you had broken your back to dig your own grave, and there was nothing to do then but fall down into it and die.  
  
No, the way poverty worked was on favors, from those who were in it with you.  
  
A man down the street kept chickens. He had terrible arthritis. Abby patched together the rusting wire of his coop every time another bit broke through, and once a week a box of eggs appeared on the front doorstep. Sometimes there was only one, but it was better than nothing; it made up for the weeks when there were no new holes to be mended. A woman appeared one night with her arm around her “sister,” who had a cloth wrapped around the jagged cut from a too-dull knife. Neil stitched her up, and two sets of sheets embroidered for brides’ trousseaux were handed over when the “sister” came back for a check-up, to supplement the ever-dwindling supply of viable linens. So on.

About a week into his new posting, while Andrew was struggling to pace the length of the floor—he did it when nobody else was around to watch, so they couldn’t catch him at his weakest—he heard Abby talking to someone outside. Andrew lurched his way to the back porch and found her in deep conversation with a skinny wild-haired waif, a girl in the uncomfortable place between child and adult. The minute she saw Andrew approaching over Abby’s shoulder she bolted.  
  
“Her parents refused to abandon the farm after it was taken over by artillery. They starved to death feeding her, and she’s been wild ever since,” Abby explained, nodding towards the trenches. It was strange, how distant they seemed, though they were only a few hours’ sneaking journey. A disquieting thought. It would not do well to become complacent.  
  
Andrew couldn’t figure out why Abby would speak to such a creature, especially after he learned from the others that it was a common occurrence. As far as he could tell, she was getting nothing but verbal abuse from the interaction. He poked at the problem in the long hours sweating and stirring over the hot cast-iron until Neil suggested that Abby might want to be available when the girl started menstruating. Andrew hadn’t thought of that.  
  
The next time he heard the screaming of the brat outside, Andrew hid by the back door and listened to how vehemently she cursed God, and watched through the crack at the way she kept a hand on the too-large knife stuck through the man’s belt knotted around her waist. He had an inkling that maybe the town priest should have fled a bit earlier. Later he showed Abby a few of the knife holds that the military had taught him, and a few more that were less elegant but easier to remember when pinned down by an opponent much stronger than yourself. Neil was surprised to see the pile of early foraged greens and shriveled vegetables clearly pilfered from multiple cellars on the porch the next morning. Andrew was not.  
  
“How did you know she’d do that?” Neil asked, hovering as Andrew gathered the roots and leaves into his arms. Andrew could tell Neil wanted to help but was letting Andrew do the work on his own, and something like hatred was warm in Andrew’s belly at both.

Some of the leaves were as small as the tip of his pinkie finger. It was early to call it spring, but strangely the world continued on.  
  
Andrew grunted as he stood. He was getting better at that, but it still hurt some. “To repay the debt. She wouldn’t be able to sleep, otherwise. The only thing worse than not having anything is owing it to someone else. It’s about dignity. Something you might want to look into,” he added, as Neil fidgeted from foot to foot to keep from snatching the foliage out of Andrew’s hands and carrying it himself.  
  
Neil dropped his eyelids half-way. “I think I’ve got dignity enough. I’ve seen men shit themselves to death while crying.”  
  
“So have I.”  
  
“Are you admitting then that I have dignity, or that you have none?”

  
  


That night as Andrew washed and strained the vegetative currency, he thought about his brother. Aaron had been set up in a room with others like him, just across the narrow hall from the impromptu kitchen where Andrew was now. He knew from Nicky that Aaron’s improvement mirrored Andrew’s own; glacial, and full of setbacks, but extant.  
  
He decided he’d hidden in cowardice for long enough.  
  
Andrew separated out the brightest of the edible flowers and fried them in the leftover water from boiled beans, laying them over the thin-sliced end of a loaf he had been intending to eat with his own dinner tonight. He carried the plate across the hall, sternly forcing his legs through what felt, emotionally, like gallons of mud, and refused to knock.  
  
There were three beds in the room. Only one was occupied, by a figure that appeared to be sleeping. Aaron sat in a chair facing the window, though the light in the room meant all he would see was his own reflection against the black.  
  
Andrew walked around in front of him and set the plate in his lap.  
  
Aaron looked up; his face went from blank, to annoyed, to dawning recognition. “Andrew,” he said hesitantly with his hands. “You—you’re walking.”  
  
“Eat,” Andrew signed. He dragged a chair from the end of one of the beds, letting it screech against the floor, and dropped into it across from Aaron.  
  
“Nicky—they said you brought me here,” Aaron said. He did not look as if he had been sleeping. He did not look as if he had been doing anything but sitting in a hard wooden chair and staring out the window, for weeks.  
  
“Eat,” Andrew repeated.  
  
“I don’t remember,” Aaron said. His fingers were shaking. “They keep saying—but I don’t know what happened. Did you really?”  
  
Andrew leaned forward and propped his chin on his fist. He reached across and poked the side of the bread, dimpling the re-softened crust. He did not say anything else.  
  
Aaron’s mouth pressed into a line. He bowed his head, and he ate.  
  
  
  
  
  
As a side-effect of no longer being trapped, infirm, in bed—a situation in which any sexual consideration turned Andrew’s stomach—he had regained his acute awareness of Neil’s body, and where it existed in space relative to his own. Neil’s hands especially, and his eyes, but also mundane things like the crook of his elbow exposed by rolled-up sleeves, or the swanlike curve of a calf propped against Andrew’s cabinets as Neil nagged him about whether it was time for dinner.

The first time, Andrew’s desire had been steeped in the memory of the sudden disappearance of it, in the bunk with Kevin. Memory did not leave Andrew the way it did other men; no peaceful ignorance was granted _his_ weary head! Distance, however, mattered. Distance and familiarity. To burn was no longer a revelation. To admire a man in a wholly physical way—Andrew had worked through that realization years before, and it no longer troubled him. He _walks in beauty, like the night._  
  
He could ignore the niggle of some other feeling, deep yet insistent, if he focused on the elegant line of Neil’s shoulders under his shirt.  
  
Andrew was in Neil and Abby’s room, as it was still where he slept, trying to determine whether he could patch the cracked window pane with glue and paper. He was having trouble, because the condensation on the window made it so nothing would stick. The sound of Neil bursting into the room was a perfect excuse to abandon the project.  
  
Andrew blinked.  
  
He had become accustomed to the patchy beard hiding the bottom of Neil’s face, so much so that it didn’t register on its own, but rather as a part of Neil, the altogether image, the person. Its sudden absence threw into sharp relief how steep the angle of Neil’s jaw was. The streaked shadows under his cheekbones belonged in renaissance oils, but they were not. They were here, present, imperfect with the patch of soap lather Neil had neglected to completely wipe off. The patch caught the window-light and sparkled, multi-colored. Neil’s eyes were brighter by far.  
  
If Neil did anything to indicate it was not welcome, Andrew would stop, but he needed to touch.

“You shaved,” Andrew said. He had Neil crowded up against his desk. Neil didn’t try to escape. Andrew cupped Neil’s face in his hand as he had once, so long ago. The skin was smooth when he brushed his thumb down with the grain, but still held stubble on the upstroke.  
  
“Yes,” Neil said, excited. He had been carrying a tray of bandages. He set them down on the desk behind him quick as a blink, leaving his hands curling around the wooden edge. “Now that I’ve got the German supply lines running better—remember I told you about the tablets? For—for under my skin? They’re prescribed to men who have their balls blown off so I pretended I had a couple of those. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. I just put in a new one.”  
  
Neil wasn’t one for smiling with his mouth, and especially not when he really meant it. But his eyes were shining, and the top of his cheeks pulled tight in joy. Andrew had never seen him this alive. He pinched Neil’s chin in his fingers and turned Neil’s face from side to side.  
  
“Someone needs to teach you how to shave when it’s _not_ to cut someone open,” Andrew murmured. There were small cuts and ingrown hairs aplenty, especially over the tricky cliff’s edge underneath Neil’s ear.  
  
“Is that an offer?” Neil wasn’t moving of his own accord, but Andrew could feel him practically vibrating in excitement. Their feet were overlapping, one-two-three-four. If Andrew wanted he could push until Neil fell backwards on the desk and scattered all those squared off papers.  
  
“I’m surprised you’d let me near your throat with something sharp.”  
  
“I already have,” Neil reminded him, jutting out his chin. As if Andrew would forget. As if he could. Andrew tipped Neil’s head back enough that it must be uncomfortable and clucked his tongue at the wispy whiskers Neil had missed on his neck.  
  
“Not your finest hour, doctor.”  
  
Neil made a noise, like the beginning of a word, and stopped.  
  
“Oh? Are you shy now?” They were close now, close as kissing. Well. Almost.  
  
“I was thinking,” Neil said.  
  
“Shocker.”  
  
Neil’s throat was mobile under Andrew’s hand for a moment as he swallowed. “I. . . before, with your surgery. I don’t know if you meant it. I can forget it. But if you wanted, I wouldn’t mind if it happened again.”  
  
Andrew had been half-sure that was an invention of his delirium. Neil had not brought it up once. He was, suddenly, very warm. “I don’t believe in regrets.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Say what you mean,” Andrew said, amused; aroused. He leaned yet closer, and deliberately let his breath fan out over Neil’s lips. Neil’s deep inhale and the flutter of his red-brown eyelashes were gratifying. Andrew remembered what Neil had asked, when he’d been in pain on the butchery table, and the reminder of Neil’s stalwart observance of Andrew’s boundaries made him brace his other hand on the table beside Neil’s, boxing him in. “Yes or no?”  
  
“Yes,” Neil whispered.

Andrew surged forward.  
  
The first thing he noticed was not Neil’s mouth. Perhaps it should have been. But Andrew was caught up in the errant softness under his palm, imperfect, cut through with scars. He wanted to rub it against his face. Then Neil sighed, gently, impossibly soft and impossibly willing, and Andrew recalled the task at hand.  
  
Neil didn’t automatically kiss back, which was odd, but not unwelcome. Andrew wanted to press and take and plunder, but he held himself back and coaxed Neil’s mouth into instinctive rhythms. He was so receptive. Andrew controlled himself for his own sanity, and many men did from learned self-stifling, but Neil had clearly learned no such thing. Andrew thought for a moment, and then took his hand away from Neil’s face—he regretted the loss of the naked skin, but there was another possibility in the making—and rested it carefully on Neil’s hip. Neil twitched forwards, transparently reigning himself back. When he opened his eyes to look at Andrew he looked already half-gone.  
  
“There are places we can go from here,” Andrew said.  
  
Neil blinked. He was like one of the cows Erik was always talking about. Andrew sighed and dug his thumbnail into the soft skin above Neil’s waistband to get his point across. Neil yelped and, in an unconscious display of eroticism, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.  
  
“Neil,” Andrew said, biting.  
  
“Oh. Yes. I want—yes.”  
  
“You want to write that sentence down?” Andrew said, amused. No; angry. No; both. He made as if to kiss Neil again but detoured at the last minute to bite down on Neil’s earlobe. Neil jerked and whimpered, surprising them both. Andrew filed the information carefully in a box labeled “important things to know.”  
  
“What language do you want it spelled in? _Yes_ ,” Neil said, petulantly. That, and the fact that he couldn’t see Neil’s face, gave Andrew the courage to slip his hand inside Neil’s pants, past his shirttails. Neil was already wet. He shuddered, knees buckling, and Andrew had done nothing yet but rest his fingers there. Andrew knew that the physical reaction meant nothing, but he couldn’t control the way he burned to feel the concrete evidence of Neil’s arousal.  
  
His fingers were gentle, but his mouth was not. There was only enough gentleness in Andrew for one. Andrew bit vicious bruises into Neil’s throat, hiding his own face while Neil whined and shook against him. It was so different from desperate fumblings in the muddy bunks, or in the back of disreputable bars. The rare sunlight shot through the room from the cracked window, dusty panes leading to dustier rays, and trapped the two of them within it. Neil’s skin was warm with that lingering afternoon light and his own blush, and he tried so hard to stay still for Andrew, as if moving without Andrew’s say-so had not occurred to him. Andrew sucked harder at Neil’s neck at the thought, and Neil gasped sharply, his hips stilling as he pulsed against Andrew’s hand. Andrew waited until he seemed mostly to have come out of it and then stroked his fingertips up once more, softly. Neil had to clutch hard at the desk to keep from falling over. Andrew huffed and removed his hand from Neil’s trousers. He wiped his fingers on the wool.  
  
Neil was watching him like he’d hung the sun. He didn’t even have the decency to look disgusted at Andrew’s choice of washrag.  
  
“I liked that,” he said.  
  
Andrew’s belly clenched. He shoved Neil’s face away and limped away from the desk. When Neil followed him, some minutes later, he moved aside from his spot standing by the window so Neil could stand beside him.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Note:**
> 
> By the time of his enlistment, Andrew would have been familiar with aspirin as a prescription drug distributed by the gram in powder form. There is some discrepancy in reporting as to when it became available as an over-the-counter tablet drug, but my sources place this from at least 1915 onward. 
> 
> So why does aspirin not appear earlier in this work? The answer is politics. At the time, the major distributor and patent-holder of aspirin was Bayer—a German company. While there were Bayer manufacturing facilities in Allied territory, notably in the UK, they were unable to keep up with the increased demand without German aid. Additionally, phenol, a precursor to aspirin, may also be used to create explosives. As is the case in war, more resources were used for the sake of causing pain than decreasing it. 
> 
> In 1917, Bayer’s patent for aspirin expired. Earlier in the war, the German government had made an effort to divert American-produced phenol from the production of explosives to the production of aspirin, at the time benefiting Bayer. As the US entered the war, they seized US Bayer assets, and more aspirin became available to the Allied front. 
> 
> An additional note about gut wounds: Andrew is very lucky Neil was trained in Germany. There was a debate at the time of WWI as to whether abdominal wounds should be operated on immediately, or after a delay. My sources suggest that the prevailing attitude among the Allied surgeons was the latter, a practice that led to many patients progressing past the point of possible recovery before surgery was even attempted. 
> 
> Most estimates of laparotomy patient survival before and during WWI are lower than the one Neil quotes. I have found only one source claiming his numbers, the rest claiming much higher mortality rates. I have given Neil his quote partially because of him using the more survivable practice and partially because Neil is a cocky little shit.


	11. Hot Cross Bun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional warnings.** This chapter contains a brief description of electroshock therapy.

* * *

**hot cross bun /ˌhɒt krɒs ˈbʌn/ _n_** _._ an ambulance. Derived from the red cross painted on the side of the vehicles.

* * *

  
The thing about Seth’s death was that it hadn’t mattered.  
  
The tunnellers had hit a cross-tunnel while attempting a sap to hit where Wymack thought a German scout post was, and had backtracked immediately to report it. It happened, sometimes. The earth under No Man’s Land was a veritable honeycomb at this point in the war, and tunnellers had to keep silent because you never knew if you were a hundred yards from enemy diggers or if they were right beside you, separated by inches of dirt. First Lieutenant Whittier, who had earned recognition among the masses for newspaper exaggerations of his dashing exploits, had got it in his head that he himself should go take a look.  
  
Wymack, his second-in-command, had strongly cautioned against it. But part of what made his men, and the general public, love Whittier was his willingness to bump elbows with the common soldiers. “I’m going mad sitting around here on my hands,” he was reported as to have said, though Andrew, who made a habit of eavesdropping on his officers, recalled him using a more colorful turn of phrase.  
  
So Whittier was dutifully showed the rudiments of digging. It was a slower process than Andrew had imagined; Matt held the light while Renee carefully slid her shovel into the packed earth, moving in tiny, glacial movements to be as quiet as possible. When nine inches down the mouth of the tunnel had been dug—the length that the shovel could carry—Seth eased the dirt off the shovel, and Matt passed it down a silent brigade of others to the surface, both of them moving as slowly and silently as Renee. When Renee got tired they rotated, and so on. It looked stressful; it looked boring. They couldn’t even react when they found a rat, or a nest of bugs, because the German diggers might be a handspan away listening.  
  
“It’s just in case of a cave-in, Sir,” Matt had explained. “We won’t make you do any digging.”  
  
Whittier, looking the part of a dashing romantic hero—as much as any of them could, in this muddy hellhole—with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his hat jauntily askew, had laughed. Andrew remembered that laugh. It had been so mirthful. It had been so arrogant.  
  
“If that happens, I’ll let Sergeant-Major Wymack take the command. God knows he’ll do a better job than I.”  
  
“No, Sir,” Matt and Wymack had protested together. Whittier brushed them off and descended into the hole.  
  
Two weeks later Wymack sent a wire to the brass explaining that the Lieutenant had not returned, and was presumed dead due to cave-in, bad air, or any number of the intrinsic dangers of digging underground. The brass were not pleased to lose their golden boy and demanded a search party be sent to retrieve him. There was an uproar when Wymack transmuted the order.

“You’re not going to find him,” Seth argued, chin jutting so far over his collar you could balance a bullet and it wouldn’t fall off. The other tunnellers murmured in agreement. Wymack looked for a moment like he would set Seth to delousing duty, but then he stopped. He uncrossed his arms. Sat down. It was a mark of his command ability that several of the men sat down with him; even Andrew felt a twinge of unease at looming over Wymack, and Andrew never loomed over anyone.  
  
“I know,” Wymack said frankly. The lines around his mouth had deepened. He seemed to have gained several new gray hairs since Whittier had entered the sap. They had been friends, Andrew remembered. “And I wish to God I could find a way around it, but they were very clear. The reason I’m telling you all this is so someone can have the chance to volunteer. If nobody does I’ll be forced to assign a man, or men, but I’ll tell you now that making that choice would come hard.”  
  
There was a general shuffling and coughing. Volunteering for a suicide mission was unlikely enough after this long in the trenches, but one in the tunnels? For a man they all knew would be dead?  
  
“This is bullshit,” Seth said. He was red in the face. “Why do they care so much about Old Whit, huh? Why didn’t they mandate rescue missions for Shetfield? Dyun? Yeo? Reacher? Hau? Some of them might even have been still alive! More so than Whittier after two weeks! Why is his life more important than theirs just because he’s an officer?”  
  
Wymack stared Seth down until his tirade had ended. When he was finished, Wymack said, “Because they don’t know what it’s like, out here. Maybe some of them have seen the trenches, or spent a week in what they think are the worst conditions imaginable but we’d all be grateful to get a whiff of the outside. They don’t get it. But they’re giving orders, and if any of you get yourself set in front of a firing squad for mutiny I will personally kill you myself.”  
  
He swept his steely eyes over all of them congregated and then returned to Seth. Seth was panting. There was a blob of spittle at the corner of his mouth.  
  
“Fine,” Seth said. “Fine. I’ll go. It’s not like I have anybody waiting at home for me anyway.”  
  
“No,” Matt started to say, standing, but Renee tugged him back down with a quiet word. His face was horrified. Renee’s was blank, but Andrew knew how much it pained her. Matt’s response was reflected on a few faces, but there was mostly guilty relief. _Better him than me._ Seth had not been well-liked.  
  
Wymack nodded. Then he strode over to Seth and extended a hand. Seth stared down at it, nonplussed, until Wymack unfolded Seth’s arm and clasped his hand, shaking it firmly. “You’re a good man, Gordon. I’ll see to it you get a promotion for this.”  
  
“Fucking hell lot of good it will do me,” Seth said. Wymack did not reprimand him.  
  


* * *

  
Andrew did have a chance to use his field-medicine skills when being stuck in the back room with the stove was too much even for him. He sat by a recently retrieved soldier and cleaned the nasty gash across the back of his head while Neil examined his ribs for breakage, lower lip jutting out as he pressed along each bone with his fingers. Andrew was having a hard time caring about the open wound in front of him when it was so much more interesting to calculate the time left before he could pull Neil into a dark corner and kiss him.  
  
He came to attention when the man said the name “Wymack.”  
  
“What was that?”  
  
“I was just saying that my commanding officer—”  
  
“Wymack,” Andrew interrupted. “I know of him, yes. What’s happened?”  
  
“Hey, you from our unit? I never would’ve guessed it. Small world.”  
  
“Smaller here than usual,” Andrew said, barely restraining his impatience behind gritted teeth. He applied more antiseptic. The man squawked. Neil carefully didn’t meet Andrew’s gaze, the corner of his mouth flickering upward.  
  
The downside to kissing Neil Josten was you wanted to do it again, immediately, all the fucking time.  
  
“Well _I_ heard that _Leverett_ heard from that _one_ nurse with the big—fuck!”  
  
“Sorry,” Neil said, sounding the opposite. “Might be a fracture there.”  
  
The man waved the non-apology off. “Almost got done by a mutiny.”  
  
This time, the slip of Andrew’s hand was accidental. “ _What?”_

“Didn’t happen, of course,” the man said. “Old fucker’s too clever for that. But Leverett says they found that Irish sniper—you know, ‘The Queen’—and that Frenchie who’s always following him around, plotting ‘round the campfire. Nothing’s happened to them as far as when I last saw, but that’s only because they can’t prove it. Hey, you’re one of us, you know what happened to that short blond bastard who was always with them? There were two of them, but the angry one. Heard he ripped a man’s throat out with his _teeth_.”  
  
The soldier turned in his chair to look at him. Andrew let a slow, unfriendly smile creep across his face. By the time it reached his eyes he could feel it had turned manic. The man swallowed.  
  
“Your ribs will be fine,” Neil said, snapping the man’s attention back to him. “Keep pressure on that head wound and I’ll be with you in a moment.”  
  
“Oh! Thanks, then. You know, I thought for sure I was dead out there, but it was a miracle you found me, doctor. I couldn’t even see my own feet through that pile of ice and mud—all right, all right, I’m getting.”  
  
Neil ushered the man out of the chair and bent his head close to Andrew’s with the excuse of grabbing the bottle of Dakin’s.  
  
“I didn’t think Kevin and Jean had it in them,” Andrew said quietly.  
  
Neil heard the question. “Jean said last time he was here that your Wymack was getting suspicious. Maybe he directly ordered them to stop coming here, same as you.”  
  
He said Jean in the French way, like a buzzing bit of song. Andrew wanted to touch Neil’s throat to see if he could feel the burr there. He settled for brushing imaginary bandage lint off of Neil’s arm. Neil fumbled the bottle and would have shattered it on the floor if the chair hadn’t been there to break the fall.  
  
“How did you find that man, by the way?” Andrew murmured. “Since we’re talking about Wymack’s orders.”  
  
“Military secret,” Neil said. He slipped out from under Andrew’s hand and hurried to tend to his patient. Andrew was left with his fingers grasping open air and the perturbing sense that Neil had been flirting.

  
“I wouldn’t,” Nicky said later.  
  
Andrew paused with his hand on the knob of the door to Aaron’s room. “If I don’t ask why, will you go away?”  
  
“He’s not—” Nicky’s hands jerked up to flutter around his face “—well, today.”  
  
 _He's never well,_ Andrew didn’t say. He pushed open the door.  
  
Unlike the other times Andrew had visited, Aaron was not in his chair. An ugly twist of Andrew’s gut had him glancing frantically around the room, and then again, slower, because the first time had been too fast to see anything. Aaron was folded into a corner, arms over his head like when Andrew had first realized something was wrong, back in the trenches, so far away now; for him, but it seemed not for Aaron. Aaron’s arms were jumping and twitching, a grotesque dance that put in mind the telltales of possession that priests had tried to scare Andrew with as a child. As quickly as he could without running Andrew was across the floor.  
  
When he touched Aaron’s arm Aaron screamed.  
  
“Aaron, it’s me,” Andrew said. He knew he sounded frustrated: he was. He was terrified. “You’re not there anymore. You’re safe. Listen—”  
  
Aaron wouldn’t stop screaming. The other patient woke with a jolt and started screaming as well, higher-pitched, and the overlapping wails pressed in around Andrew’s ears like an officer’s whistle, like the screams of dying horses back at the beginning when they’d thought this war could be won in the noble style. He could feel blood welling up around his fingers. Andrew scrabbled at Aaron’s shirt, trying to feel where he was wounded.   
  
“Goddammit, stop it! Look at me!”  
  
Aaron’s eyes were open, but it wasn’t Andrew he was seeing.  
  
Thundering footsteps; Neil came through the door at a run, and Andrew vaguely registered Nicky’s voice increasing in volume as he followed. He was pried from his brother with four hands, wrestled to the floor as he fought and snarled until under the screaming he heard Nicky’s voice repeating the same things he had been saying to Aaron, and the realization made him have to bite his tongue to keep from retching. It gave him enough pause to rein himself back. His hand was gripping Neil’s so tightly he could feel the fine bones shifting. Neil did not complain.  
  
“It’s going to be okay,” Neil was saying, low, firm. “I know we don’t have the means to care for him here, but I’ve been in contact with doctors through the German side. There’s an electroshock clinic that will take him in. I’m working out the details—”  
  
Nicky slapped Neil across the face.  
  
It was such a shock that Andrew stopped panicking. He stared, jaw loosening behind his closed mouth, as Nicky glowered, his hands curling into fists at his sides. Tears bubbled up in his hot angry eyes; one spilled down his cheek, a slow line that transfixed Andrew as his sluggish mind tried to put the scene together. Neil had gone still. A bright red imprint was rising on his skin.  
  
“I will kill you,” Nicky said. Andrew was not sure he had ever seen Nicky this angry. He was not sure he had ever seen Nicky angry at all. “The only thing that therapy gives you is more nightmares. I will not let you give my cousin to those people.”  
  
“It’s a promising technique,” Neil said stubbornly. “Your cousin’s neurons are currently convincing him that things that are safe are things he remembers as dangerous. If we stimulate them to the point of pain across that neural connection, his mind will instinctively shy away from making it. I could explain in detail how it works, but you probably don’t even know what a neuron is, do you.”  
  
“I know if it _worked_ I wouldn’t still want a cock up my ass,” Nicky snapped. He reached out and tugged Andrew away from Neil’s suddenly lax grip. Andrew, still in shock, let him. Nicky’s chest was warm under his ear, the beat of his heart like a grandfather clock, strong and measured. It gave Andrew something to grab onto. Something to quell the swirling mess of his head and heart.  
  
Abby found them like that, huddled _en tableau_ in the middle of the scuffed floor. She approached Aaron with hands outstretched, speaking softly. Andrew could not hear what she said, to calm Aaron and then the other patient. He only knew that afterward, the silence was the loudest of all.  
  


* * *

  
 _“I want to go home, I want to go home.  
I don't want to go in the trenches no more,  
Where whizzbangs and shrapnel they whistle and roar.  
Take me over the sea, where the Alleyman_ _can't get at me.  
Oh my, I don't want to die, I want to go home._

 _I want to go home, I want to go home.  
I don't want to visit la Belle France no more,  
For oh the Jack Johnsons they make such a roar.  
_ _Take me over the sea, where the snipers they can't get at me.  
Oh my, I don't want to die, I want to go home!”_

“It’s _un_ _Allemand_ ,” Jean said, over the whoops and applause. His ill temper was met with booing and rude gestures. Miffed, he crossed his arms and slumped down, muttering to Kevin under his breath. Andrew kept an eye on them.  
  
“It’s good to see Mister Cross singing again,” Bee said around the pins in her mouth. She was in the process of pinning up one of her medical aprons, using Renee as a dressmaker’s dummy. Even hemlines were a ludicrous priority out here on the front, but the point of the exercise wasn’t how the skirt fit Nurse Dobson.  
  
“Not-Singing Bob doesn’t ring the same,” Andrew said. In truth, the music was somewhat of a boon, breaking the monotony of daily, muddy, life. Singing Bob Cross, _née_ Robin Cross, had been quiet since two of the members of the Kitchener’s Barbershop Quartet he’d formed—Seth was the fourth—had succumbed to typhoid. Andrew might have been impressed that Seth had managed to drag the song out of Bob’s lungs again if he hadn’t been present for the several hours of increasingly off-key opera Seth had bombarded him with to get to this point.  
  
Singing Bob’s roar of laughter was too forceful, but nobody was going to call him out on it. He slung an arm across Seth’s shoulders and staggered around in a circle, presenting his stage partner to the indulgent audience. No one who saw Seth expected him to have a voice fit for cathedrals, but between his high tenor and Singing Bob’s growly baritone they were managing quite reasonable entertainment, for a night.  
  
As was Andrew’s custom whenever he had a moment, Andrew updated his mental roster of his people. Matt was perched on a rocky outcropping writing a letter home to his Danielle, tongue between his teeth as he thought. Nicky was trying to bully Aaron into taking a swig from one of two tin cups without telling him which one held trench water and which one whiskey. Kevin was actually drinking whiskey. Seth was catching his breath for another song, Renee was as aforementioned being snuck some time in clothes that suited her better than uniform khakis, and Bee was helping her. Everyone was accounted for: but Andrew’s eyes kept straying back to Kevin, where he curved towards Jean like a waning moon, the two of them speaking in whispers.  
  
“Wymack wouldn’t have assigned him to you if he wasn’t trustworthy,” Renee said, following Andrew’s gaze. Andrew grunted and stubbed his cigarette on the bottom of his boot. There was trustworthy, and there was worthy of Andrew’s trust. The two were different. Jean had yet to prove himself a member of the latter category.

“I think Kevin knows how much you care about him,” Bee said. Andrew looked at the ground. That wasn’t the point at all. He was making sure Kevin didn’t give too much away to someone who fucked him over, that was it. Kevin had the sense of a soft-boiled egg. He needed someone to look after him.  
  
A shout and a great spluttering went up; apparently, Aaron had chosen the trench water. Nicky threw his head back laughing, and downed the whiskey with an exaggerated smacking of lips. Renee tried to hide her own mirth behind an exasperated sigh. Andrew tapped his temple and pointed at her. He saw what she was about.  
  
Renee dipped her head towards Bee. “How long did it take for him to trust Kevin? Give it time. Andrew just doesn’t like people touching what’s his. Sooner or later even _he_ has to let people in.”  
  


* * *

  
And then, at last, Andrew was sat on the surgery kitchen table and Neil was unwinding his bandages to find them clean.  
  
“It’s healed better than I expected, with you moving around all the time,” Neil said, sweeping clinical hands across Andrew’s stomach. He leaned close to check the stitches. Andrew felt his breath stir the regrowth of pale fuzz leading from his navel. It was a warmer day than it had been recently. Andrew could hear the _drip, drip_ of snow melting off the corners of the roof outside the window, plonking against the windowsill outside and splashing back. Still, without his shirt he was cold, and he missed Neil’s warmth as he stood again.  
  
“If I’m better, why can’t I lose the bandages?” he asked, as Neil set about fetching fresh ones. Neil nudged him so he would sit up, a motion that was less uncomfortable every day. Andrew lifted his arms so Neil could wrap the bandages around his torso. He’d once fantasized about having Neil’s fingers brush his skin like this. The reality left much to be desired, because Neil refused to presume desire was what his touch should provoke. It was maddening; more so because Andrew felt keenly his own appreciation.  
  
“Support. Your guts may be inside you again, but the muscle around them has lost a lot of strength. The point is to keep you from hurting yourself bending over to tie your shoes.” Neil tied the end of the bandages together and tucked in the trailing edges, giving the knot a decisive pat. It was hopelessly endearing, and Neil didn’t seem to realize he’d done it. Andrew fought down the urge to kiss the scarred cheek so close to his own. A strange urge. He’d not had the like before. Sitting around on his ass all day was making him weak in the head.  
  
“I hope this doesn’t flood,” Neil said, stepping to peer out the window. His shoes whispered on the floor, and as he pulled his gloves off the tilting of his head brought back the memory of the first time Andrew had been on Neil’s table, back before he’d had anything of Neil but his credentials and his word that he would not let Nicky die. How different it was now, Andrew allowing willingly Neil’s touch, the swoop of Neil’s neck not a place to dig his knife but a place to press his mouth. _I heard he ripped out a throat with his teeth.  
  
_ Framed by the window, his right foot turning out unconsciously as he stood on tiptoe to get a better look at the snowmelt, Neil was beautiful. A single red-brown curl stuck up at odd angles over his ear. The corner of his shirt was untucked there, in the back. Imperfections that made him real. There in the fading winter light he looked like every bad decision Andrew had ever made, and Andrew hated how he could not bring himself to turn away.  
  
“Come here,” he said.  
  
Neil did. There was no suspicion on his face. Why should he trust Andrew so implicitly? Andrew could throw him over his knee and break his spine in an instant. And yet he had stood with his hands in Andrew’s guts and not ripped them to pieces. The click of Andrew’s throat as he swallowed echoed through his memories, touching the ones that had told him this was impossible; it was not for people like him. The sound said: _Neil, Avram, Doctor_. It said: _wanting._ It said: _I know you are afraid, but maybe, for the first time, you do not have to be_.  
  
Neil stood between Andrew’s parted knees, his hands tucked into the small of his back. Content to just look. It would have been easier if he were a dream, but the curl and the shirt-corner showed he was not. Andrew breathed in through his nose and out.  
  
“I want you to kiss me,” he said. “You can say no.”  
  
So little. So much.

“Yes,” Neil said. He kept his hands behind his back and moved closer, until he was pushing against the edge of the table. Andrew parted his lips in anticipation, but after long moments of consideration where Andrew’s skin went hot and cold and hot again, Neil leaned forward and pressed his lips against Andrew’s throat.  
  
Andrew shuddered. His hands came up to clutch Neil’s back.  
  
"Okay?" Neil asked.

Neil's lips brushed Andrew's skin as he spoke, sticking wetly. Andrew pressed his palms flat against Neil's spine. Through vest and shirt he could feel the give around Neil's waist, where ribs ended to expose the vulnerable kidneys. Andrew would not even have to use a knife to gut Neil here. Just claw his fingers and dig in.  
  
"Go on, _doctor_."  
  
Neil hummed once against Andrew’s pulse, encouraging. He moved to a spot an inch off and kissed again. From his lips grew an upwelling of pleasure, rippling outward across Andrew’s chest, the leading edge dipping into his belly. He tightened his grip to ruck up a fistful of Neil’s vest and Neil gasped. Andrew felt it. He could feel—everything.  
  
“Upstairs,” he said. He could hear how wrecked he sounded, but he could do nothing about it.  
  
Upstairs he pushed Neil down into his bed—Neil’s bed—the bed that had been Neil’s but now must smell like the both of them, and the thought was enough to have Andrew biting into Neil’s mouth, swallowing the moans as he worked Neil’s trousers open and off. He dropped to his knees and _Yes_ he fit his mouth at the apex of Neil’s thighs, kissing there until _Yes_ Neil was trembling, saying words Andrew tried not to hear because he knew they couldn’t be true _Yes_ digging his nails into Neil’s hips as Neil cried out and _Yes, Andrew,_ came in a seizing of his whole body, an echo Andrew felt vibrate through him, making him hiss, making him throb.  
  
He wanted.  
  
Neil slid to the floor in a tangle of limbs, uncaring that he was rumpled and swollen at the mouth from kissing. A high flush reddened his cheeks, and the part of his stomach Andrew could see from where his shirt had ridden up in Neil’s desperate writhing. Andrew waited until Neil was breathing like a man and not a racehorse and then rapped his knuckles on the floorboards between them. Neil’s head snapped up at once.  
  
Slowly, watching Neil’s face, Andrew slipped a hand inside his own trousers. He saw Neil recognize what he was doing, his eyes widening. Andrew forced himself to hold Neil's gaze.  
  
"Okay?" He asked, quietly.  
  
Neil nodded. "Yes, _yes._ "  
  
Pressing his lips together, Andrew stroked himself slowly, and then faster. Neil was watching his face, pupils dilated and mouth red. He had his own hands resting on his knees. They gripped tightly there, carefully not touching Andrew. It kept his desire from being terrifying, made it safe, made it good. Andrew's wrist was chafing. He unbuttoned himself and shoved his underwear down, still searching Neil's face to make sure it was okay.  
  
Neil swallowed. "Can I look?"  
  
Andrew considered. His blood burned, cautiously. "A little," he managed. "Not staring."  
  
True to it, Neil's eyes flicked down but then back up, tracing over Andrew's bare chest, his face, lingering appreciatively on his arms. Here on the floorboards, with the watery daylight and Neil's open appreciation, it felt so good. It might be enough. The tension built and built, but it would not—quite—go over. _Come on,_ Andrew told himself harshly.  
  
Andrew thrust out his free hand, but Neil didn't catch on until he lifted Neil's hand from his knee himself, gripping tightly. He saw the way it made Neil's eyelids dip. Goosebumps rippled across Neil's skin. The anticipation built, and then it was falling, built, and it was falling, up but never quite breaking. Andrew wrenched his hand harder, furious with himself. He was just about to give up when Neil started talking.  
  
"You look so good," Neil said. Andrew felt the shock of the words down his spine. Neil's voice was soft, not pushing, just expressing something plainly like it was given truth. Andrew tightened his hold on Neil's hand. "I'm so glad I get to see you like this. You're red all the way down your chest, do you know? I wonder if you're as warm as I get when you're touching me. I hope so. It feels so good. I want you to feel that good."  
  
Neil rocked his hips minutely against the floor and whined. And finally, Andrew was coming.  
  
He had not been able to come for months. It tightened all the muscles in his abdomen as if around a fist. It hurt. It was a relief. He had to stop stroking himself through it, oversensitive, and just keep his hand there. As he recovered Andrew realized his breath was coming in harsh, guttural pants, ripped from his lungs. He squeezed his eyes shut. Tears were leaking slowly down his cheeks. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to be touched or not. How strange, to not be sure.  
  
Andrew kept hold of Neil's hand and scooted to slump against the side of the bed, the metal pressing cold against his flushed skin. It was grounding. He let his other hand drop. Gently Neil reached out and took it, but that was all right; that was only hands. Neil kept Andrew's gaze, checking, always checking, and touched the tip of Andrew's messy pointer finger to his mouth. He made a small noise of discovery that had Andrew's belly tightening again. He shuddered, and then shivered, suddenly freezing.  
  
And tired. So very tired.  
  
After a while, Andrew felt he could exist again. He let go of Neil's hands. Neil stood and helped him up onto the mattress, and then gathered the basin and a towel from the nightstand. He cleaned Andrew's face and then his hand. If he had been tender about it Andrew would have kicked him, but Neil had returned to medical efficiency, and Andrew felt himself calming. This was routine. Familiar. He could feel his eyes trying to close. His side throbbed dully.  
  
Neil took the bowl to carry it downstairs, presumably to wash it out. He’d pulled on his clothes again. At the door he paused and looked back.  
  
"Go away, asshole. I'm trying to sleep," Andrew said. His voice was syrupy with exhaustion.  
  
Neil smiled, the corners of his eyes tilting up, and left.  
  
  
  
  


The shells were different from outside the battle.  
  
Oh, they were loud, and the flash-bang was bright, but the difference a mile made was palpable. Andrew perked his head up when he heard the first whizz-bang, and so did all the other soldiers downstairs. But it was a shadow of the sound, and once Andrew stopped his heart from racing he realized they were so far away to be laughable. At least, from where he'd been stationed. It would be just his luck to get blown up in the hospital.  
  
The air was tense for a moment, men looking at each other and remembering the differences in their uniforms. Then Nicky laughed, forced, and started a loud conversation with a Kraut about poker. The rest of them set their hooks in Nicky's out and let the tentative peace rise again. Andrew stood and made his way slowly to the kitchen. The damp was not good for wounds, even mostly-healed ones; and the damp was ever-present.  
  
Neil was out in his habitual place by the trough, leaning back against the house with his hat tipped down over his eyes. Another man might think him asleep. Andrew knew better.  
  
"Shouldn't you be prepping for surgery, doctor?" Andrew itched to smooth the wrinkled edge of Neil's collar. He gave himself a stern look from inside his brain and didn't.  
  
"Eh," Neil said. He sounded unbothered. Cold. It was impressive. "There's not much I can do until I know what will show up."  
  
"I thought you'd know better than to wait around."  
  
Neil tilted his chin up so Andrew could see his eyes. It was a mirror of their first meeting, Neil aloof, Andrew stumbling. Andrew set his hands carefully on the railing. He didn't know why he wanted to punch it. He just recognized the impulse.  
  
He'd had a lot of experience with the like.  
  
"Have you met me?" Neil said. "All my life I've been looking for a good reason to stay."  
  
"And war's a good reason?"  
  
"It's a necessary one," Neil said. He wasn't looking out over the killing fields.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Note:**
> 
> To the British soldier, the Western Front was full of unfamiliar phrases: the military did not require its troops to have a working knowledge of French before shipping them out. As with in other countries the British army had been sent to, native words and place names were filtered through British mouths to become part of army slang. Below are a few examples of the adaptation. Annoy your local French speaker today!
> 
>  _Allemand(e)_ (German person) → _Alleyman_
> 
>  _Hommes: 40, Chevaux: 8_ (40 men, 8 horses: a capacity notice posted on French railroad cars) → _omms-n-chevoos_ (a term for the railroad cars themselves)
> 
>  _Il n’y a plus!_ (there is no more!) → _napoo_ (finished, dead, destroyed)
> 
>  _Ypres_ (a city in West Flanders) → _Wipers_


	12. Zero Hour

* * *

**zero hour /ˈzɪə.rəʊ ˌaʊə r/ _n._** the exact time an attack is scheduled to start.

* * *

What showed up proved Neil's foresight right, because nobody could have predicted it. It was one Sergeant-Major David Wymack.

Andrew made an effort to be in the way.  
  
Wymack squinted at him. “You should be dead.”  
  
“I’m not. Sir.”  
  
“Oh 'Sir' is it? Goddammit, Minyard, you better have a good fucking explanation how you and your brother are planning to escape court-martialing.”  
  
Abby set down a mug of hot water in front of Wymack with more force than strictly necessary. They had taken over the surgery kitchen for this conversation, though Abby had warned them they would be kicked out as soon as it was required for bloodier purposes. It was strange to be in here with the kitchen used for its original intent.

Neil was conspicuously absent.

“We’re injured,” Andrew said. He pulled up his shirt and pointed to his bandages. “Isn’t that what the hospital’s made for?”  
  
“Don’t think this counts as much of a hospital. No offense meant, ma’am,” he added, looking at Abby.  
  
Abby’s face was smooth. “Is there a reason you’re antagonizing my patient, Lieutenant Wymack?”  
  
Andrew translated, surprised. Sure enough, he realized, Wymack had the single star on his sleeve that indicated his promotion had finally gone through. The stitching around the star was done in new black thread, mismatched and ugly. Wymack made an abortive motion as if to hide his arm behind his back when he saw Andrew looking.  
  
“He’s antagonizing _me_ ,” Wymack told Abby. He wilted under the look Abby gave him. Andrew didn’t even have to translate that one.  
  
It was equal parts entertaining and disturbing to see Wymack so cowed.

They sat around glaring at each other until Neil came tramping up the front steps, medical bag thrown over his shoulder, breathing heavily from the effort of racing around town. He was, fortunately, not dragging any bodies. Living or dead.  
  
Wymack stood. “Doctor.”  
  
“Lieutenant,” Neil said, eyes flicking over Wymack’s uniform. He made his way over beside Abby, brushing his fingers across Andrew’s as he went. His hands were cold and still wet from washing. “What can we do for you?”

“There’s a rumor you’re good at finding downed men.”  
  
“I’m not a stretcher bearer,” Neil said. His face was as blank as Abby’s. It was times like this that Andrew saw how they could sell their mother-son lie.  
  
“Didn’t say you were.” Wymack sighed. He ran a hand through his hair. “Normally I wouldn’t be asking this of civilians, but this is a particular case.” He looked over at Andrew. “Private Day is missing.”  
  
The floor tilted under Andrew’s feet.  
  
“He was last seen with your friend Lance Corporal Walker,” Wymack continued. His face remained stern, but his eyes held a thread of sympathy. Andrew clenched his fists and breathed in through his nose. The floor was getting steeper, threatening to dump him on his ass. “We’ve a general idea where they might be, but it’s difficult enough to retrieve a body, much less find a man quickly when he might be alive.”  
  
“Why does this Private Day matter so much to you?” Neil asked, unconsciously echoing Seth’s statement before he had died. _Why is his life more important?_

 _Because he’s mine,_ Andrew wanted to say. _Because he’s mine, and so is Renee, and I promised to protect them._  
  
Wymack cleared his throat. He took his hat off and twisted it in his hands, then realized he was doing so and abruptly stopped. “He’s my son.”  
  
A background part of Andrew’s mind catalogued surprise. It was written on a little card and added to the filing cabinet not because Andrew felt it, but because he knew it was the proper emotion for such a time. He couldn’t think about anything other than fear for Kevin, for Renee. He hated fear. It made him weak.  
  
Abby’s face softened. She looked at Neil. Was she thinking of him, or the children whom Neil had intimated to Andrew were lost?  
  
“Avram,” she said.  
  
Neil set his bag down on the floor with a thud. He shook his head and escaped back out the front door. It banged shut behind him.  
  
Wymack dragged his hand down his face. He looked old. “Minyard, you seem to have some pull with him. I don’t suppose it’s worth having you give it a shot?”  
  
The spiking panic under Andrew’s skin made him want to say, _yes, I’ll drag it out of him_ , but he forced himself to wait and take several deep breaths. He walked over, step by step, and sat down in the chair Abby had drawn up for Neil across from Wymack.  
  
“I can ask him,” he said. “But I want honorable discharge for me and for Aaron.”  
  
Wymack frowned. “I was going to offer you my best attempts to keep you from the firing squad. You’ll be lucky if you get out of this one alive.”  
  
“Honorable discharge,” Andrew repeated. He leaned forward over the table. “This is not a negotiation. Those are the terms. Aaron’s still staring crazy at the wall. You put him back out there, he’ll die at the first step.”  
  
“And you?”  
  
“I’m not going anywhere without my brother,” Andrew said. He splayed his hand on the table and pressed down. The table was reassuringly solid, dark, the finish on it still shining even after all its use.  
  
“Fine. Good luck to you, then,” Wymack said. Andrew nodded and stood with an obnoxious scraping of his chair. He followed Neil’s retreat outside.  
  
Neil was sitting on the second to last step, one knee propped up and his hands clasped atop it. He didn’t look up as Andrew sat down on the porch, grunting, and rummaged for a cigarette.  
  
“I promised Kevin Day I’d keep him safe,” Andrew said conversationally. There would be no good to forcing this. He made himself hold back.  
  
“And Renee?”  
  
Andrew shrugged, though he felt like doing anything but. He lit his cigarette and took a slow draw. If nothing else, the nicotine might let him think right. “She still owes me from poker. I don’t want her dying until I get my money.”  
  
“Liar,” Neil said.  
  
“That’s you.”  
  
“Maybe so.” Neil leaned back, resting his head on Andrew’s knee. “If your officer turns me in, it won’t be just me. It’ll be Abby too.”  
  
Andrew hissed smoke out through his teeth. He knew that. He never had figured out how Neil could find so many men, but he had enough of a guess to know word getting out would be a problem. “So I’ll tell him if he wants your help, he’s got to shut his trap.”  
  
“I want to believe you,” Neil said. He was an idiot, for that. “But I need something else. My father is unlikely to follow me here. Getting taken prisoner by your army wouldn’t end up being any safer.”

The half-rotted wood of the steps bit splinters into Andrew’s palm. If he could only make Neil understand how important this was. It would be easy to hoist Neil up by the collar, slam his head into the naked railing swollen with water from the morning’s rain. He could save Kevin and Renee, at the cost of Neil’s trust. At the cost of his body heat, radiating from that scarred cheek through Andrew’s trousers, the other upturned, where with a flick of his knife Andrew could make it match.  
  
He could sooner pluck out his own eyeballs than hurt Neil. He could sooner break his own legs than leave Renee and Kevin to join the decay ever-spreading across No Man’s Land, taking over the earth until the whole world would be covered in it. These had been farmlands, once, Abby had said. Sickles for bayonets, and soldiers fell like wheat for threshing. An infantry man was supposed to get a half-loaf of bread a day; he never got that much, and his bones made none at all.  
  
In the trenches, the infantryman was used as a general manual laborer, including loading and unloading cargo transport. It was drudgery, and the men took to inventing games to keep themselves from falling into stupor. One Andrew had seen involved standing with one foot each in the back of two trucks, passing boxes from one to the other as they rumbled down what passed, out here, for a road.  
  
Really, it wasn’t a surprise it fell out the way that it did. There was a patch of sinking mud. One set of wheels got stuck, and the other set didn’t. Both drivers immediately cut the engines, but momentum had done as she always did, and gone on. The worst part had been the sound. A pop, and then a wet sucking, like biting through the skin of a fresh-picked apple.  
  
The scene had struck Andrew, not because of the gore—Andrew had seen far worse—nor because it had been so easily preventable—there was no point in dwelling on what you could have done when you had to deal with the reality of what you had. No, what Andrew had often times returned to was the instant between the man’s legs dislocating and the actual rending of limb from limb. Andrew had been in the bed of the mud-bound truck and had watched the awful realization on the man’s face as he had felt that first, inescapable, tear.  
  
That tear was what Andrew was feeling now.  
  
One of Neil’s arms curled around Andrew’s ankle, bracing Neil so he wouldn’t slip down the warped tilt of steps. A drunken man could climb them and think them even. _Tell me what I can give for you to do this thing,_ Andrew wanted to say. _I’ve forgotten it here, these weeks, but I’m too much of a monster to understand the needs of men._  
  
What did Neil stand to lose here? Asylum. He was only refugee running towards the war. What did Andrew have to offer?  
  
With jerky motions, Andrew grabbed his new notebook out of his jacket and sketched a few jagged strokes. He ripped the page out and handed it over. Neil sat up straight again to read it. Andrew thought he had been used to winter’s chill. He had not then known the difference between having Neil’s head on his knee, and his absence.  
  
“A key?”  
  
Andrew cleared his throat. This had been a much simpler idea to have than it was to say. “Left the real one with the kid who stayed behind to run the bar. But that’ll do just as well as long as I’m there. When you decide you’re finished playing martyr for men who’ll never know you.”  
  
Understanding was slow to dawn, and when it did, it was clear Neil didn’t believe it. “What about Abby?”  
  
“As long as she doesn’t bring back any strange men to stay the night.” Andrew’s heart was beating so fast he felt dizzy.  
  
“Just the ones we know,” Neil murmured. He traced the lines of the sketch with a finger and then smoothed the paper against his chest. “And my father?”  
  
Andrew took a deep breath. Held it. He’d promised he’d never do this again. Andrew Minyard did not break any promises but the ones he made to himself. “I’ll keep you safe.”  
  
“You know,” Neil said, “I think you actually could.”  
  


* * *

  
“It’s called a Telemoblioscope,” Neil said.

For a moment Andrew was sure he’d mistranslated the German. “What?”  
  
“A Telemoblioscope,” Neil repeated. He shoved aside the dangling arm of a cotton chemise. “It uses radio waves to detect pieces of metal. The idea was for it to prevent shipwrecks.”  
  
“Huh,” said Andrew. There wasn’t much else to say, to that.  
  
“Can we at least get it out of your mother’s underthings?” Wymack asked gruffly.  
  
The three of them were wedged inside the upstairs closet, barely three feet from where Andrew had spent the past weeks recovering. The dramatic irony of the situation was not lost on him. Apparently under piles of extra blankets and quite a lot of matronly underwear was stored the secret to Neil’s unnatural success.  
  
“Does Abby really need all this?” Andrew asked. He recognized some of the styles from the performers at Eden’s—though these looked more old-fashioned. Nicky had kept abreast of the trends.  
  
“Skirts are harder to keep clean than trousers.”  
  
Andrew thought about it. “I suppose. I wonder if I should take some back for Bee?”  
  
“That’s it, out,” Wymack blustered. He backed away and seized a fistful of Andrew’s shirt, a warning Andrew knew meant he’d not hesitate to drag Andrew if pressed. “ _Frau_ Josten is a good woman and doesn’t deserve you poking through her drawers.”  
  
“I don’t think she has any of those, actually. Neil—”  
  
“You’re already treading deep water there, Corporal.”  
  
Andrew decided not to point out that it had been Wymack who had insisted upon seeing where Neil’s “finding device” was kept.  
  
It was a lot smaller than Andrew had supposed a secret weapon would be. It was also in three parts. Neil handed Andrew a wood-mounted block with a series mysterious knobs on it, and two thick wires pointing dangerously off the top. Wymack got the mounted cylinder. Neil took the last piece, which looked like of all things a gas lamp, cradling it carefully in his arms. He walked briskly out the door; Andrew heard him going down the stairs.  
  
Wymack and Andrew looked at each other.  
  
“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t say it,” Wymack said wearily. He followed Neil, holding his third of the contraption with the guarded delicacy of a grenade. Andrew had to walk sideways to fit the antennas through the door. They looked like they might move, but this wasn’t a situation in which Andrew was willing to risk breaking them.  
  
“Where the fuck did you get this?” he asked Neil as he deposited his weird block (there was a bell on it. For what?) on the kitchen table. Neil was already dressed to go outside, reaching inside the cabinets with the efficiency of long habitation to restock his medical bag. Andrew stuffed his arms in Aaron’s greatcoat, since his was lost and Aaron had no current use for it. It had been deloused, which was nice. It was also dry. Andrew wasn’t sure it had been dry since the wool had been on the sheep.  
  
“My father,” Neil said absently. He was counting through the handles in a soft pouch of sharp instruments. “It was one of the things he picked up on his contract. Useless for his tastes; you can’t really tell how far away something is, but more importantly, you can’t use it to directly kill them. He liked it to be a one-step process.”  
  
“And he let you take it?”  
  
Neil turned around. His eyes were cold. “No. He did not.”  
  
“—hate to ask you to do this,” Wymack was saying over his shoulder, coming in the door. He did the same as Andrew, put his mechanic bit on the table and started bundling up. Abby followed him, and behind her was a soldier with his arm in a sling.  
  
“I don’t mind it, Sir,” the man said. He had a heavy French accent. “I have a son myself.”  
  
Wymack startled. “You? You can’t be older than nineteen, kid.”  
  
“Seventeen, actually,” the man said. “Sixteen when I joined. My friends and I all lied on the form.” He gestured to his arm. “Got this my third day out. Figured myself for dead until Doctor Josten found me.”  
  
Seventeen and a father? Andrew looked at Neil and raised his eyebrows. Neil spread his hands: _not my business._  
  
None of them asked what had happened to the friends.  
  
The young man left, hidden under a drab blanket to hide his colors, headed for the tunnel to retrieve Jean and Matt. Renee’s tunnel was going to end up the worst-kept secret in the war.  
  
Andrew was going to kill Kevin and Renee, when he found them, for making him do this.  
  
 _When. When. When._  
  
Abby had drawn Neil aside and was speaking to him in a low voice with her hands on his shoulders. He nodded, and Abby bent down to kiss his forehead. When she straightened her eyes were flinty.  
  
She looked at Andrew and Wymack. In heavily accented English, she said, “You will bring my son back to me.”  
  
“Yes, ma’am,” Wymack said.

  
  


  
Wymack had pointed out the most likely place for Kevin and Renee to be found on the map he’d dug from his coat, a comprehensive plan of the local sap system on the British side. It was impressive, far more extensive than Andrew had thought. He’d known the tunnels were useful, and heard Matt complain about being undervalued. He just hadn’t realized how many places there were to bomb the Germans from underneath.  
  
It made him think uncomfortably about where the German saps might be.  
  
He crowded Neil up against the wall of the hallway on the guise of getting—something—Andrew hadn’t thought that far. Neil let him, going pliant against him. Andrew gritted his teeth.  
  
There were soldiers behind them, just out of sight, lounging or languishing in bed. Abby and Wymack were behind the kitchen door. And there was no time, for anything that mattered.  
  
“Yes or no?”  
  
“Here?” Neil asked, surprised.  
  
“Idiot. Not that.”  
  
“Andrew, if we don’t find them, will you be all right?”  
  
“We’ll find them,” Andrew said. He had squeezed his eyes shut. He peeled them back open, and found he disliked sympathy on Neil Josten’s face. “Don’t do that.”  
  
“Do what?”  
  
“Stare. Exist. Look, is this thing really going to work?”  
  
“It will help,” Neil said. He set his mouth. “Soldiers have a lot of metal on them. If we know the vicinity, we have a higher chance of picking them up with this than random digging.”  
  
“How many dead bodies do you end up rescuing?”  
  
“You don’t want me to answer that.”  
  
He didn’t. That was why he needed it answered. “I do.”  
  
“Eight in ten.”  
  
“Neil.”  
  
“Eighteen in twenty, maybe.”  
  
Andrew breathed in through his nose, and out.  
  
“Andrew.”  
  
“What.”  
  
“Yes or no?”  
  
“Here?” Andrew mocked.  
  
“Not that,” Neil repeated back, but his tone was softer. Andrew hesitated. His heart was galloping one way and his head the other. He needed a moment to stop thinking.  
  
“No.”  
  
Neil let his arms fall to his sides. From the line of his neck to the splay of his feet, he held no restive expectation that Andrew would change his mind. His expression had the gall to be _grateful_ , that Andrew had refused his touch. Andrew hated him.  
  
“Get a move on, lads!” Wymack shouted from inside the kitchen.  
  
“ _Gott mit uns?”_ Neil suggested. He wouldn’t look away from Andrew’s face.  
  
“Well He sure isn’t helping to save the King,” Andrew said. He stepped back. “Let’s go.”  
  
  
  


  
Carrying delicate machinery while belly-crawling across rocks was not dignified. Andrew wasn’t sure what would happen if he dropped the contraption, but he didn’t want to find out with Kevin and Renee on the line. He cradled the box over his head, crawling on his elbows, his fingers clamped around the clapper of the bell.  
  
“You can feel it try to go off,” Neil had said. “When we get near enough, then I’ll want to know. The sound—”  
  
“Will only get us shot,” Andrew had finished. “This isn’t my first time on skulking duty.”  
  
Wymack was with them. He had refused to stay behind, and Andrew was strung up between respecting the decision and feeling as if the Lieutenant was breathing down his neck. In the dark night they made painfully slow progress, pausing every few inches to strain their ears for enemy discovery. It would have been bad enough at any point in No Man’s Land, but the spot that Wymack thought it likely Kevin and Renee had chosen to be trapped was right up against the German trench line. Andrew’s woolen gloves were soaked with slush melt in seconds. It was strange, how annoying it was. He had become used to being clean and dry.  
  
The clapper twitched often. Every time it did Andrew felt a spike of panic that his fingers would slip and it would ring out. He lost track of where they were quickly—No Man’s Land felt endless, every creeping, crawling scoot like worms along the surface of the blasted earth making microbial progress in the distance they had to go. Neil must have had eyes that could see in the dark as well as a memory to rival Andrew’s own, because he kept on steadily, never pausing but for moments.  
  
The whole front of Andrew’s clothing was caked in melting mud. He wanted to rip everything off, to get away from the sucking, putrid endlessness. Only the thought of Renee and Kevin kept him going forward.  
  
He’d said he would protect Kevin. He’d promised.  
  
Neil stopped them after minutes, hours, years, touching Andrew’s shoulder and presumably Wymack’s as he lay and they passed him. There was the shadow-form of a cracked tree erupting out of the earth in front, grotesque with the scars from shelling. Andrew was surprised the thing had survived at all.  
  
Neil’s hand was on his wrist, the wrist keeping the bell quiet. He breathed against Andrew’s ear. “There,” he said. “Which direction?”  
  
Andrew waved the box and wires around. At first he could sense nothing, but after a few more passes he felt the clapper push against his thumb. He pointed.  
  
It was the husk of a spent shell. The second time was a shell, too, and the third and fourth remains of what might have once been human. Andrew was growing frustrated, working harder to quell the thought that the longer this took, the less likely they would find Kevin and Renee alive. Over a collapsed pile of frozen dirt Neil paused again and listened. In the silence Andrew could hear Wymack struggling to pretend he wasn’t panting.  
  
“Here,” Neil said.  
  
Slowly, flinching at every metallic clank, Andrew passed the finding-contraption over to Neil and with Wymack got out a shovel and started to dig. The disturbance at least made digging possible. Though the top layer of soil had softened in preparation for spring, the ones underneath remained frozen and impassible. The moon had sunk precariously low on the horizon by the time they managed to clear away mass enough to poke through for survivors.  
  
More bodies; endless bullets. It was both knife’s edge and boring, searching through the mud. Andrew was struggling not to let the growing surety of failure overtake him.  
  
His shovel hit a sheet of hard rock, clanking loudly. He heard Wymack do the same and curse, nearly silently, but nearly meant a lot this close to the German line. Neil fiddled with the knobs and the gas lamp, and then straightened up. He moved beside Andrew. Andrew could feel the warmth of him from shoulder to heel. Neil reached across and exchanged shovel for contraption once again. He moved five inches over and began to dig. Andrew expected him to hit rock as well, but after a few shovelfuls Neil hit a small pocket of air.  
  
Wymack leaned forward. Andrew did not believe in hope, but this might be—an air sap—  
  
“Second Lieutenant Wymack,” Wymack said softly into the hole. “Anyone there?”

A voice, faint but unmistakably Renee’s, came up through the hole. “Private Day and Lance Corporal Walker reporting for duty, Sir.”  
  
“Hello,” Kevin’s voice added, weakly.  
  
Andrew nearly dropped the Telethingbometer in relief.

Wymack let out a slow, shuddering breath. “We’re getting you out of there. Just stay put.”  
  
“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Renee said. Her voice was exhausted. Andrew listened closely for signs of injury, but could make out nothing but general weariness and the desperate relief of having been found. “I’m stuck against the wall. If I move it crumbles down. And Kevin—”  
  
Andrew’s heart froze in his chest.  
  
“What about Private Day?” Wymack asked. His hands were clenched.  
  
Renee hesitated. “The rocks fell on his hand. He’s going to need help getting out.”  
  
“Shit,” Wymack whispered. “Fuck. Goddammit.”  
  
Neil squeezed Andrew’s shoulder, tightly. “I’ve brought my medical bag,” he said into the hole. “Get me down there and I’ll do what I can.”  
  
There was a shifting of bodies—and terrifyingly, of dirt—from underneath them. Kevin whimpered. Neil’s hand on Andrew’s shoulder was the only thing keeping him from clawing through the earth with his bare hands.  
  
“Okay,” Renee said. “I’m—thank you for finding us. I didn’t think—”  
  
“Thank us when you’re aboveground and fed,” Wymack said. His voice was so gruff it resembled the growl of an animal. “Now save your breath to keep awake, and I want to know immediately if anything starts falling down, do you hear?”  
  
“Yes, Sir.”  
  
That was not the end, of course. Extracting them was a difficult, nerve-wracking task. The sun was beginning to become a real problem, pre-dawn turning them from shapes in the night to a blatant threat against the shelled ground. Every moment they remained out here was another chance for the Germans to find them, or the rocks to shift and cut off Renee and Kevin’s air. Conversing mostly in gestures, it was decided to backtrack and attempt to dig them out via the ditch formed by the adjoining collapsed sap, so they’d be at least slightly less exposed. Kevin attempted to mask his panic as they left. Wymack’s eyes were grim.  
  
They got Renee out first. She was curled around the jagged remains of the tree roots, twisted in an uncomfortable position. When her legs were free, Andrew opened his arms. She took two crawling steps forward and then fell against Andrew’s chest, burying silent sobs in his neck. She was shivering. Andrew patted her back, squeezing tightly to convince himself that she was alive.  
  
“She’s been marvelous,” Kevin said. “Didn’t panic at all. She’s kept me sane this whole time. It was her that figured out how to make sure we had a hole for air.”  
  
“Shut up so they don’t bomb us now,” Andrew whispered back.  
  
“I needed you to know.”  
  
“Shut. It.”  
  
Kevin, for once in his life, did.  
  
A possible reason became clear the more rubble they cleared away. Kevin was lying on his back, with less space than Renee had had. But even if he’d had a whole cavern, he wouldn’t have been able to dig out. His left hand was trapped between two heavy rocks. He had to be in considerable pain.  
  
“I think it’s holding the whole roof up,” Kevin said, when Wymack and Andrew attempted to move the one on top.  
  
“Shit.”  
  
Neil tapped Andrew’s shoulder. Andrew moved aside to let him through. After a moment of feeling around Neil rested his hand on Kevin’s wrist.

A sudden noise split the still morning open like an overripe peach. _rrrrATATATATATATA—_  
  
“Fuck!” Wymack dove to the bottom of the ditch. Andrew dragged Renee down beside him as he flattened himself likewise. It seemed the Germans had discovered their little excursion; it must be about time for morning stand-to. Machine gun fire sprayed overhead, kicking up puffs of dirt. Andrew could smell the scorched air as the bullets passed bare inches from his skull. If it weren’t for the ditch they’d be dead.

There was muffled German shouting, and then a shell arced through the air. The trajectory put it too far away to hit any of them, and for a moment Andrew was filled with derision. Then the shockwave from the explosion rippled through the earth around him. The hollow where Neil crouched beside Kevin rained a shower of dirt. Andrew rolled away from Renee and wiggled on his belly towards them.  
  
Kevin’s face was paler than Andrew had ever seen it. It would be nice if it was only from fear, but Andrew saw the smear of red on the rocks beside his hand and knew a fair amount was blood loss. Neil was unrolling his medical kit.  
  
Andrew couldn’t reach them without going over a mound of dirt that would put him at the level of the gunfire. He dragged at a splintered root until it broke free in a shower of dirt and stone. Some of it went up his nose and he started coughing. Neil’s head snapped around.  
  
“You idiot,” Andrew tried to say, around his spasming throat.  
  
Neil’s eyes were all white, the blue tiny in comparison. Andrew remembered the illustration of a fae creature he had seen in a book of children’s tales, reaching a hand out for a mortal soul. Neil said something but it was lost in the blast from another shell. Andrew tried to push himself closer.  
  
“I’m not going to leave him!”  
  
“You—” but what could Andrew say? It was true that Kevin could not follow, trapped as he was. Andrew began to climb the mound, toes slipping. A sudden tug on his ankle stopped him. It was Renee, grim-faced.  
  
“Let go!”  
  
“You’ll get killed!”  
  
“That doesn’t matter!” Andrew shook his leg, but Renee’s grip was to strong. Panic clawed up his throat. “I can’t—you can’t keep me from them!”  
  
“Andrew,” Renee started, and another shell hit, closer than the last two. The upheaval of dirt pushed Andrew onto his back. He fought to flip onto his hands and knees. The roots of the tree were on fire.  
  
“Go,” Neil shouted. Dirt was raining down around him, and around Kevin, shielded barely by Neil’s back. “I’ll come and meet you, go!”  
  
“No!”  
  
BOOM.  
  
Andrew saw Kevin turn his head, mouth moving, and Neil nod. Then with a crack and a shudder, the tree tipped over. The earth swallowed them whole.  
  
 _“NO!”_

  
  
  
  
Loss, Andrew had thought, should be a solemn thing, felt in the head and the heart like the dragging depths of the ocean. It should make one cold, make one curl into blankets and hold heavy tomes in both hands, not reading, just feeling the weight. It should be dry, quiet words, crumbling uselessly like stale cake. It should be writing letters to people that didn’t exist anymore, and never finding the words to say what you wanted to when they were alive. Loss should be gray.  
  
He had felt that gray loss before, had weathered the stares and murmurs of people who wondered why he said nothing, cried not at the tragedy of his loneliness. He had thought them naïve, to think an absence should result in dramatics. Things that happened could lead to emotion. Things that didn’t happen were inert. He was learning now that those people had been right.

Loss was red.  
  
Flashes: Renee’s hand on Andrew’s, dragging him backwards, the red ribbon around her wrist where she had re-tied her identification tag. Wymack tying his tunic around his hip, cursing as blood soaked through. The leftover copper fragments of a shell months old, because this shelling was no different than the others, the endless years of explosive and bullet and thundering death, spoiling the earth so that no man would live here again. The sunrise flooding the sky at the dawning of a day Andrew had never wanted to see.

Was the bloody haze over Andrew’s vision drying gore, or just the way the world had been? He had thought he knew the world. Thought he knew the brutality, made sense in its senselessness. He had not. There was gritty mud under his palms, the skin on his hands cracking in it. Andrew dug his fingers around a stone and started to pull himself upright.  
  
“What are you doing?”

Oh, loss was red, it was the beat of Andrew’s heart and the rush in his veins. The anger of men condensed to a point; that point was Andrew Minyard. He was standing. The earth wavered underneath him, or maybe that was his own boots. Fire licked up his spine. Was that the burn of explosives, or his own life within him, clamoring to be let out to join those he had promised to keep safe?  
  
“Minyard, get your ass _down!_ ”  
  
“That’s your doctor in there!” Andrew shouted, in German. He cupped his hands around his mouth. The absence of the support from the rock made him stumble. “Idiots! Fucking bastards! Doctor Josten!”

Behind him, a rock exploded. Debris pelted Andrew’s back and calves. He locked his knees. A red man did not sit. He waited, but not for very long.

 _"Waffenstillstand!”_  
  
Silence.  
  
Andrew watched over the circle of his hands, still bracketing his mouth, as spiked helmets popped above the German trench line. He bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted the red.  
  
Is this what people felt every time? It was unbearable. Andrew started to laugh. He laughed as a squad of Germans crawled up over the top, rifles aimed, barking orders as they crept forward. He laughed as they came right up to the ditch and surrounded them. They didn’t get it: any pain they could cause to him would be but sweet balm. Wymack was trying to stand up and act like an officer. Andrew laughed at him, too.

“Someone shut him up,” one of the German soldiers said. His fellow reached for Andrew. In an instant Andrew had grabbed him by the wrist and elbow and twisted so the man was on his knees, Andrew’s knife to his chin. The clicking of all the guns cocking, pointed now directly at Andrew, was only background noise. The man under his hands tried to slowly reach for his pistol.  
  
“No, don’t do that,” Andrew said in German. The man froze. Andrew leaned close to his ear and pinched his cheek. He was close enough to hear the man swallow.  
  
“Minyard,” Wymack said. Andrew stood up, raising his arms to release the German soldier, and stepped back down into the ditch. He grinned at Wymack. Laughter was bubbling again up his throat, pushing at the backs of his teeth like bile. Renee extended a hand, but he shook his head. If anyone touched him right now, even she, he would kill them.  
  
Wymack had started to direct the Germans to where Neil and Kevin were buried, heaving himself to his feet with much swearing and limping. Andrew huddled down beside Renee, tucking his hands into his coat pockets. His cheeks hurt. He could not stop smiling. The two people he’d promised the most to protect were dead. What a grand joke.

Renee’s eyes were heavy with sympathy. Andrew looked away.

There was shouting when the Germans uncovered the first booted foot. Andrew knew that boot. Of course he did, he’d slept in the same muddy underground hole with it for months. He waited for the Germans to pull him—it—out of the ground. What was holding them up?  
  
“It doesn’t look like the—whole thing collapsed—”  
  
Andrew wanted to tell Renee to shove it with her lie of hope. He couldn’t speak. Now that he had sat down, he couldn’t move at all.  
  
The Germans were buzzing around the tunnel like bees, climbing into and out of the ditch, waving hands and shovels. Wymack was hollering. Andrew stretched his hands out before him, trying to grasp the figures that looked so far away, trying to get them to _stop_. He could snatch them out of the air and stuff them in his tunic to muffle them, if they would stand still. Blue eyes, blue skies, gone to war and never came home. It was like a nursery rhyme. _There was a doctor, went to France, and Josten was his name-o. . . ._

“Andrew.” Renee waved her hand in front of his face. Andrew tried to shove it away. “Andrew, look.”  
  
The Germans had cleared a hole out from the middle of the collapse, another door underground. Two men were reaching into it. Andrew didn’t want to see them emerge with either body and also couldn’t bear to look away. He stared with dread spreading thickly in his stomach as a ruddy head emerged, hanging limp. The corners of his eyes prickled. He was still smiling.  
  
The head raised.  
  
No. That wasn’t—that wasn’t right.  
  
Shoulders followed the head, and then arms, cradling something—cradling someone close and dragging them along. A torso, two, and then legs, and one man standing, propped up by German soldiers, the other one with a bandage around the stump of a wrist. That didn’t make sense. People didn’t bandage corpses.  
  
“Andrew,” Renee said. She was offering her arm to help him up.  
  
The Germans shrank back as Andrew came near. He raised his hand and realized he was still holding his knife. He fumbled to put it back on his belt, and then dropped it when his clumsy fingers couldn’t figure out how. It sank into the mud as Andrew trod over it.  
  
The second before his hands cupped Neil’s face he realized they were shaking.  
  
“Kevin’s all right,” Neil was saying. “He could be better. The amputation wasn’t my best work— _des guillotines_ —and he’ll be out for at least another two hours with the anesthesia. Maybe more. He’s severely dehydrated. The soldiers are going to take all of you back to their lieutenant. I couldn’t talk them out of it.”  
  
Andrew shook his head: there were too many words. He slid a palm back to cover the bump at the top of Neil’s spine, drawing him in by the nape of the neck. Neil’s forehead was gritty with dirt under Andrew’s lips. Nothing had ever tasted as sweet.  
  
  
  
  


The German lieutenant was a broad-shouldered man with a moustache like a sketched line in pencil, as if the artist had mis-guessed how big to draw his mouth. He only looked well rested in comparison to Wymack.

Andrew had been in German trenches before, but at night, and when they were covered in bodies. It was only the reprieve of the past months that allowed Andrew to think of the conditions he saw now as miserable. Yes, the German trenches were long, crenulated holes in the ground; yes, the tops were roofless to the sky. But with the advantage of the higher ground the Germans did not have to contend with constant flooding to the knee or higher. That alone would have made a world of a difference (Nicky, Andrew thought uncomfortably, would not have lost his feet if he’d been a German). But the German trenches in general were better constructed; the walls sturdier, the underground quarters deeper, and more concern given to the necessities of an extended campaign.  
  
Of course, coming from even the most ramshackle of hovels, Andrew could see that they were still dirty military camps. It was difficult to meld that knowledge with Renee’s wide-eyed envy when one of the soldiers escorting them _turned on the electric light_.  
  


She was currently sitting in a chair beside Kevin—who was still passed out cold—wrapped in Aaron’s coat. Neil was fussing over both of them, checking pulses and bullying Renee into drinking the cup of hot water he’d demanded for his patient. It was amusing to see the German privates jump and scurry at his command. Some things were the same across nationalities.  
  
“Do you speak any German?” the _Leutnant_ asked, pressing his fingertips on his desk to lean towards Wymack. The desk certainly wouldn’t be fit for any London study, but it was more than a muddy board propped up on knees. There was even a tablecloth of old newspaper laid atop it. Andrew wondered how the fuck the French and British brass thought they were supposed to win this war, when the other side had tablecloths.  


“A small amount,” Wymack said in German, holding up a pinched thumb and forefinger. He was hiding his discomfort well. It was obvious to anyone who knew him, but to another it would come off as a mixture of anger and exhaustion. Andrew had never seen him standing so straight. He might as well fix Wymack to the top of a rifle and use him as a bayonet.  
  
“That is well. I know a little English,” the _Leutnant_ said carefully, in that language. Switching back to German, he added, “I think we can each make ourselves understood. _Gefreiter_ Schulte can clear up any difficulties.”  
  
A young man stepped forward and saluted.  
  
“Corporal Minyard,” Wymack said. It was a good choice. Even if Andrew had not been the only one there besides Neil to speak both languages fluently, he slotted narrowly above the other interpreter in terms of corresponding rank. Schulte narrowed his eyes at Andrew across the dugout-room. Andrew stared back blankly.  
  
It was like ripping off his skin, to leave Neil’s side. Andrew had not broken contact with him since the reunion after Neil and Kevin had emerged from the ground, keeping a hand on Neil’s back, or his elbow, or and arm around his neck as they crowded the Germans carrying Kevin’s slumbering form. Unfortunately, hesitating at orders was not a luxury any of them possessed this deep in the enemy’s holdings. They had too little strength left to act as leverage without squandering it on tantrums. Andrew allowed himself one pass of his hand from Neil’s shoulder to his wrist and stepped aside to click his heels.

“Here, Sir."  
  
“ _Leutnant_ Weiß,” the German lieutenant said, gesturing to his chest.  
  
“Lieutenant Wymack.”  
  
“Good. Now we can speak like men.” Weiß straightened up behind his desk. “This is a different situation than we are used to when taking prisoners.”  
  
It was a question. Andrew watched Wymack start to clasp his hands behind his back and then stop himself. “This is a different situation than we’re used to being them. As you’ve seen, we came here to rescue your doctor.”  
  
“Not ours. Not entirely yours, either, it seems.”

Andrew risked a glance towards Neil to see how he was reacting to being spoken of like an absent party.  
  
Neil was speaking softly to Renee, kneeling beside her with one hand on Kevin’s knee to keep him secure in the chair. He had refused to answer any questions about why he’d gone out with Wymack. The Telemoblioscope had been lost in one of the shell-blasts, Andrew was fairly sure. He had been focused on other things at the time. Andrew couldn’t bring himself to care for the loss of all the future casualties it wouldn’t find. Kevin and Renee overweighed them on the scale.  
  
Wymack inclined his head. “That might be so. I was grateful to accept the help of your men in extracting him.”  
  
Weiß tucked his thumbs in his belt and nodded towards the scene happening in the chairs. “They also extracted two of your soldiers. We do not hold enemy prisoners at the front line. There will be a transport coming for you in the next week to take you a more secure location.”  
  
The interpreter Schulte looked smug. Andrew glared at him in lieu of saying something to the Leutnant. _That will only make things worse,_ he reminded himself. _Bite_ _your tongue one last time, like was beaten into you. Just once more._

Now Neil was peering carefully under Kevin’s eyelids. He must be showing signs of waking. It required the full force of Andrew’s will to remain at attention beside Wymack and not run over to check for himself.

“Lieutenant,” Wymack said. His voice was carefully polite, more than Andrew had ever heard it. “I understand that is the regular procedure. I request that you defer it for this particular case. As you can see, both of the soldiers you rescued are badly injured. Corporal Minyard too is to be medically discharged. Grant them the dignity of returning to their own homes to recover. They are no longer any threat to the German army.”  
  
“Doctor Josten, can you confirm this?” Weiß asked. He did not take his eyes off of Wymack.  
  
“Yes,” Neil said. Andrew thought he heard Kevin groan. It was too dangerous to look over a third time.  
  
“Your word, Doctor.”  
  
Neil crossed into the corner of Andrew’s vision, chin high. The circles under his eyes and the blood on his hands and waistcoat added, not detracted, from the steel in his bearing. “Corporal Minyard, Lance Corporal Walker, and Private Day will not see another minute of battle as long as they are in my care or that of any reputable doctor.”  
  
He held Weiß’s gaze for what felt like a long time, each of them taking stock of the other. Andrew curled his tongue against the roof of his mouth to draw back the leeching moisture. He only remained breathing through concentrated effort.  
  
At last Weiß’s eyes swung back to Wymack. “And what about you? Shall I see you again, if I let you and your soldiers walk free?”  
  
Andrew saw the question strike Wymack, saw him blanch, though he quickly masked it. Wymack was leaning to one side to keep the majority of his weight off his injured leg, but it was clear the wound was a slight one. It had stopped bleeding, and Wymack had been able to walk under his own power into the German trenches and down into their command center.

 _Lie,_ Andrew thought at him. _There is no honor left in war. Honesty is what separates the righteous and the damned, but you cannot be righteous if you are dead._

“That’s likely, yes. I won’t leave the men in my trenches to fend for themselves,” Wymack said quietly.  
  
Andrew closed his eyes. When he opened them Weiß was walking around his desk to stand across from Wymack on the dirty floor, no newspaper tablecloth between them.  
  
“Honest men are hard to find in this cursed mud,” Weiß said. He held out a hand. “My men will escort you and yours back to the edge of the town.”  
  
Wymack stared down at Weiß’s hand, uncomprehending. This was the first time, Andrew realized, that he had a taste of what it meant to be a proper officer, other than more paperwork and whiny underlings to slog through. Dazedly, as if moving through molasses, Wymack extended his own hand to clasp the one Weiß offered. They shook once, firm and final.  
  
“Lieutenant,” Weiß said. “It will be an honor meet you on the field.”

“You as well, _Leutnant_.”  
  
  
  


  
  
The Germans took them as far as the opening of their tunnel—they had had the same idea of reaching Neil’s house as the Allies did. When they were well enough out in the open to stand, Wymack took Kevin’s other arm from where it had been slung over Andrew’s neck and hefted him under the knees and shoulders. Kevin was awake, something that had made relief crack like an egg in Andrew’s chest, but disorientated, and nobody trusted him to walk on his own. Kevin was so tall it looked funny, being carried like a bride, except that it wasn’t funny at all. Renee, smeared in mud and blood cut through with tracks from tears, let out a shuddering silent laugh. She let Andrew squeeze her arm.  
  
They knew they’d been seen from the house because a cry went up, deep and anguished. Jean came pelting toward them, coat flapping behind him, and took Kevin from Wymack’s arms, feeling for a pulse. When Kevin lolled his head and offered him a dopey smile Jean fell to his knees, cradling Kevin against his chest. He did not seem to care that Wymack was watching as he showered Kevin’s face in kisses. A moment later Matt came barreling out too, and scooped Renee up in a hug. Andrew could hear the murmur of his voice but could not tell if he was speaking to her or praying.  
  
Andrew felt very tired. He tugged on the strap of Neil’s bag so Neil would follow him and trudged back up to the house. Abby was wiping the kitchen table, and said something to Neil in non-German that Neil responded to, softly. Andrew went past her, down the hall, to the room where Aaron was, Neil a silent shadow behind him. He knelt in front of his brother and took Aaron’s limp hand in his own. Neil made a noise, but he shook his head when Andrew looked up and simply laid a hand on the back of Aaron’s chair.  
  
“Aaron,” Andrew said. He cleared the sudden lump in his throat. “We’re going home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Note:**
> 
> The Telemoblioscope, invented by Christian Hülsmeyer, was a precursor to radar. It was accepted for patent and first demonstrated publicly in 1904. Hülsmeyer’s apparatus consisted mainly of a spark-gap radio transmitter and a coherer radio receiver, both connected to antennae. The system could detect the direction of approaching metal, and was suggested as a way to sense distant naval ships. 
> 
> Though the Telemoblioscope was an important innovation in science and technology, it is unlikely Neil got much real help from it during his sweeps for wounded soldiers. For one, Hülsmeyer’s invention could not detect the distance to pieces of metal, only their direction. For another, crawling across the ground is a precarious position for using most mechanical equipment effectively, especially ones with multiple delicate parts. Doctors are not themselves immune to the placebo effect. The use of the device gave Neil the confidence and focus to employ his own observation skills, determination, and intimate knowledge of the spaces in which bodies can be hid.
> 
>   
> _Hülsmeyer Telemoblioscope_


	13. Epilogue: Order Of The Bowler Hat

* * *

**Order of the Bowler Hat /ˈɔː.də r əv,ɒv ðə,ði ˌbəʊ.lə ˈhæt / _n._** men who were sent home from the front lines. Used only by officers.

* * *

  
They made a sorry rabble, stepping off the train, blinking in the weak London morning. There were five of them: Kevin, Renee, Andrew, Aaron, and one Nurse Betsy Dobson, who had taken it upon herself to be Aaron’s indefinite keeper. She’d been staying over on her assignment in the trenches, she explained, the guilt of leaving the hordes of the dying too much to consider; but here was a man who needed her help at home.  
  
(There had been no more talk of the electroshock clinic.)  
  
Andrew saw Renee back to her Allison (a blonde woman with a frighteningly stylish gown and the muscles of a mechanic) and the rest of them to the house Aaron’s wife had taken in the town, and returned to his own flat above Eden’s. It took him two sleepless nights to admit he couldn’t bear not having his family under his watch. He showed up on Katelyn and Aaron’s doorstep with a knapsack full of all the things he cared about. There were few. He left notice with the new bartender at Eden’s, a handsome young man named Roland who might have turned Andrew’s head before Flanders, and wrote it also in a letter to Doctor Josten.

(Andrew mailed a letter to Neil every Friday. Sometimes, he got one back.)  
  
Even with a sister dead, and a nephew and a son both disowned, the Hemmicks it seemed had not known when to cut their losses. They had no use for a man who wouldn't speak using his voice. One of Katelyn's VAD friends had had for her husband a good lawyer before the mud of France had sucked him down. With the friend for legal reckoning and Andrew as interpreter, Katelyn put on her best hat and called upon her in-laws to _negotiate_ a different arrangement. The result gave them all quite enough to live comfortably.

It was the first time Andrew had truly respected his brother's wife. He had found other reasons since.  
  


  
  
  
It was an impossible luxury, to rise at noon, to take breakfast in a sunny drawing room with delicate flowered china, to sit at his writing desk until dinner if he so chose, to have fresh bread and meat every night. Slowly, Andrew gained back the softness around his middle that he’d lost in the trenches. There was always enough to eat, here. Sometimes he rubbed his fingers on his sides and marveled that he could no longer feel his starveling ribs.

Of course, it was not that easy.  
  
Every step forward dragged the whole weight of the War behind it. Once Andrew found himself whistling as he scrubbed the back of the drawing-room cabinets (Aaron and Katelyn may have grown up with servants, but Andrew didn't like other people in his space), an annoyingly upbeat earworm brought over from the States. _Johnny get your gun, get your gun, get your gun. . . ._

Andrew had to stop and find himself a chair and a stiff drink. When he opened the cabinet again a month later, the cloth was still there, coated in a fresh layer of dust.

The smallest things would set him off. The feeling of wet wool against his neck after a sudden downpour. The smell of mud. The pop of the cork on the champagne bought to celebrate Kevin’s birthday sent Andrew, Aaron, Kevin, and Bee covering their heads in instinctive response against enemy fire. Katelyn, who had no reason to think a cork even made noise, was left holding the bottle in dismay. Watching her girls try to explain it to her, stark through the filter of childhood, made Andrew so ashamed he had to leave the table. That night he found Kevin vomiting in the garden, having drunk himself sick for the same sentiment.  
  
  
  
  


Nicky arrived on the fourteenth of June, having been ordered home from his volunteer medical accountant position in deference to the threat of contracting Spanish Flu. He pushed himself in a wheeled chair beside a tall handsome man in infantry khaki. It took a moment for Andrew to recognize the man as Erik Klose, for in British uniform he looked like any other Tommy. At first Katelyn refused to have a German soldier in her house. It was only after she saw the way Erik treated her two girls, crouching to speak to them and indulging their prying fascination about his eyes, that she allowed him to take the room at the end of the hall with Nicky.  
  
Aaron’s daughters had also contributed much towards Katelyn’s tolerance of Andrew. They followed him around incessantly, demanding he entertain them.

"I don't know why they like me," Andrew said to Bee, leaning against the kitchen counter and drying off the dishes she handed him from the sink. Running water was something Andrew had not appreciated enough, before.  
  
"Well, what things made you like people as a child?" Bee held up a plate, but Andrew didn't take it. As he'd expected, Bee dipped it back into the sink a moment later, reapplying the dishrag. Bee always washed everything three times. Andrew supposed trying to clean wounds in a mudhole under the ground would do that to you.  
  
"Nothing. I never liked people. I don't, now."  
  
"Maybe it's stubbornness. Are you drying these or aren’t you?”

  
  
  


_We’ve attached ourselves to a French regiment,_ Neil wrote in his next letter. _Their aid station got hit with a shell-blast. They tell me my father is dead. Apparently they caught him with his hands in their military secrets. I don’t know whether or not to believe them. Official reports can be forged. I’ve done it, after all._  
  
 _Come here then,_ Andrew wanted to tell him. _There’s no longer any reason for you to stay. There are hospitals enough in London._ He did not.  
  


Four days before the armistice was signed, Andrew found Aaron teaching Erik how to shoot heroin in the pantry. It took the combined efforts of everyone else in the house to tear Andrew off them. Afterwards Bee took the twins to Renee’s and Kevin took Andrew.

Kevin’s grip on Andrew’s sleeve was careful not to clamp around his wrist. Fuming, Andrew let himself be led into the November streets, his exposed ears aching in the cold—Kevin hadn’t let him grab a hat. They paused to let a horse and carriage go by, narrowly missing snipping off Andrew’s nose. The rainwater kicked up by the wheels soaked into Andrew’s socks. Wonderful. Andrew hated having wet socks.  
  
When they reached the Thames, Kevin set his elbows on the railing of the bridge and lit up a cigarette. He was more comfortable using the wooden prosthetic that had replaced his missing hand when he could cover it with a thick cold-weather glove. Usually he hid it in his pocket. Even in stylish leather it noticeably lacked the articulation of a living hand.  
  
Andrew crossed his arms and settled beside Kevin to wait to be told what this was all about. His anger still burned hot within him, sickening to something he’d have to bleed out. Even through coat and sweater the icy railing bit into his back.  
  
“That was the first time. He only bought the powder yesterday, ” Kevin said quietly. His eyes were fixed over the river, focused on the opposite shore. Someone’s dog chased merrily after a stick there, mud staining his chest and paws. Andrew ground his teeth and found a cigarette of his own to keep from breaking Kevin’s face with his hands.  
  
“You knew he had it and you didn’t tell me?”  
  
“I was going to talk to him after he used it.”  
  
“And now _Herr_ Klose has been caught up in this as well. Congratulations. You’re a tactical genius.”  
  
“Andrew,” Kevin said. He was still looking over the water. The dog had caught the stick and carried it back to his master, shamelessly begging for pats, which the boy gave. “You can’t do this forever.”  
  
Two women crossed behind them, baskets on their arms. Kevin crowded against the railing to let them pass. It gave Andrew the time to exhale and to decide he wasn’t going to knee Kevin in his sanctimonious balls.  
  
“Do not presume to tell me how I can and can’t act with my family.”  
  
Finally, Kevin turned to look at him. His nose was red from the frigid air, but not as red as Andrew had seen it before from drinking. “He’s got a wife now, children. He’s got all of us too.”

The saliva in Andrew’s mouth had gone bitter. Andrew spat; now it was his turn to look across the water. “So what, you’re telling me he doesn’t need me?”  
  
“I’m telling you you’re not Corporal Minyard anymore.”  
  
Andrew’s gloves stuck to the new frost as he pressed them against the railing. “Funny, you didn’t tell me you’d been given the authority to demote military personnel.”  
  
Kevin sighed. He wrapped his scarf closer around his throat. Andrew saw the red fabric flick out of the corner of his eye. It was a beautiful scarf and Kevin was very vain about it. If Andrew focused on hating the scarf, he wouldn’t have to—  
  
Breathe. In and out. Melting ice sinking up through wool to his palms, cooling them.  
  
“I think you should put your poems in a book,” Kevin said.  
  
That was an unexpected twist of subject. “What?”  
  
“You don’t think they’re good enough?”  
  
“I think I don’t want every idiot Jack using them to wipe shit off his ass.”  
  
Kevin’s fingers fiddled with the top button of his coat. “I write letters to my father, you know.”  
  
“And you never send them. What’s the point?”  
  
“ _That’s_ the point. I don’t send them, but writing them is still something. At first it was practice, for. . . . Now it's different. I used to watch you, back in the mud. That dinky little notebook and the pencil that you could barely hold in two fingers. You would sit there and write, and I could tell afterward you were more organized inside. I think it’s good, when the world doesn’t make sense, to try to fit words around it."  
  
The frost had now melted completely, two hand-shaped prints spreading across the wood. “Figured you’d be a sentimental bastard.”  
  
“Andrew,” Kevin said again. He reached over and Andrew let him rest his littlest finger on the back of Andrew’s hand, the cigarette-smoke rising in the chill air from between his index and middle. “I’ve got my letters to Wymack. Aaron has Katelyn and the girls. Bee has Aaron’s health. Even Nicky and Erik have started helping the nurses over at Queen Alexandra’s. What do you have?”  
  
Andrew squeezed his eyes shut tight. He saw again the needle in his brother’s hand, the practiced way he had tapped Erik’s vein to show him how to inject poison. “I’ve always had nothing.”  
  
“I know,” Kevin said. He sounded so terribly sad. “But after all this, don’t you think you deserve better?”

  
  
  


Andrew and Renee visited back and forth often. Andrew always prearranged his appearances at Renee’s apartment—it turned out, the hair-trigger vigilance of the tunnels didn’t do well with unexpected knocking at the door—so when he arrived one Tuesday afternoon to find an unfamiliar coat hanging in the entryway, he was immediately on guard. Hand to his knife, Andrew followed Renee’s welcoming shout to the kitchen with heavy footsteps.

A dark-skinned woman he vaguely recognized was seated at her table, twisting a handkerchief between her hands. It took Andrew a moment to place her. She was the woman from Matt’s watch-picture, the one he could never shut up about. Danielle Wilds. A spike of panic disrupted the bile in Andrew’s stomach. Matt had always been more Renee’s than his, and so it was Renee who had taken charge of keeping a tab on him. If something had happened—  
  
Death wasn’t so present, here in the fat of London. Andrew was losing his callouses.  
  
“He’s alive,” Renee said before Andrew could ask. Andrew jerked his head in a nod and sat down in the empty chair across from her. Renee poured him a cup of tea to match the two already cooling in front of herself and her guest.  
  
“Nice to meet you,” Miss Wilds said. Her nose was stuffed: she’d been crying. “Miss Walker says you served with Matt.”

“‘With’ is a generous term,” Andrew said.  
  
They eyed each other.  
  
“This is Mister Andrew Minyard,” Renee said, that tinge of too-polite in her voice that let Andrew know she was frustrated at his ill manners. It was always fun to see how far he could rile Renee up before she’d admit she was bothered. “Andrew, this is Miss Dan Wilds. Matthew’s fiancée.”

There was a clatter and a muffled curse from behind the door Andrew knew led to the bedroom Renee and Allison shared.  
  
“Rotary engine,” Renee said, apologetic, fond. “Fixing them makes her grumpy. She says they’re already obsolete.”

Allison had a tendency to make herself scarce when emotional conversations were happening. Andrew respected that. At this point, he and Allison hated each other only as a formality.  
  
“Matt,” Andrew said. “Start talking.”

Disease was a constant companion to the men in the trenches, and did not listen to such things as cease-fires and signatures on paper. It seemed, Renee explained as Miss Wilds now crunched the handkerchief into tighter and tighter fistfuls, that Matt’s lungs had once again betrayed him. He was detained in a base hospital with pneumonia. The nurse who had contacted Miss Wilds was worried about the toll traveling home would have on his chances of recovery.

“I thought we might pray,” Renee said.  
  
“He needs medicine, not prayer,” Andrew said. He was so tired. Tired of this. Tired of nothing every stopping, just lumbering onward, an ungainly ugly thing that pulled and pulled from reservoirs that had long since gone to dust. The war was over. When Johnny Comes Marching To Die Of Pneumonia didn’t fit the tune.

But when had a song told the truth? When had it mattered what was fair?  
  
“The prayer is for Matthew, but the praying, that’s for us,” Renee said gently. She extended her hands. Miss Wilds took the left, knotting their fingers together and closing her eyes. Andrew hesitated. Renee smiled at him. With Miss Wilds not looking, she let Andrew see the fear in the trembling of her lips.  
  
Andrew did not take her hand, but he stayed to watch over them as Renee said her Bible-talk, a quiet sentinel before the teapot and the desperate hope for a world that could be lived in.

  
  
  
  
Jean wrote that Kevin should expect him after he’d settled his affairs in France. _I love my country,_ he said, _but she is a broken thing, now, and both of us need time to heal._ Andrew waited for a similar letter from Neil, but Neil only complained about his dwindling supply of bandages.

  
  
  


_~~It’s a good thing I don’t miss~~ _ _  
~~Sometimes I think about  
I told you to come~~  
Kevin tells me to make sure you’re eating._

  
  


  
On a bright afternoon at the beginning of spring, Andrew sat at his writing desk in his shirtsleeves, shuffling the odd pages he’d torn from different notebooks. Katelyn knocked on the door. Andrew poked his head out.  
  
“There’s a package for you to sign for,” she signed. A smile flickered at the corner of her mouth. Nonplussed, as he hadn’t been expecting anything, Andrew pulled his suspenders over his shoulders and went downstairs.  
  
He opened the door to blue eyes and auburn curls.  
  
“I went to the address you gave me,” Neil said, out of breath. He looked older. His voice was deeper, his shoulders broader, and the patchy scruff had become a respectable, close-cropped beard. “I wasn’t sure if it was the first house, or the second, or the third, and I didn’t want to talk to your neighbors, so I waited until I saw Nurse Dobson through the upper window. Abby’s getting lunch, but I had to see you. I was so afraid you wouldn’t be here. But you are here. You’re here, Andrew—"  
  
Andrew drew him into the house, away from prying neighborly eyes, and kissed him. And kissed him. And kissed him.  
  


* * *

  
In Flanders fields the poppies blow  
Between the crosses, row on row,  
That mark our place; and in the sky  
The larks, still bravely singing, fly  
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago  
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,  
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,  
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:  
To you from failing hands we throw  
The torch; be yours to hold it high.  
If ye break faith with us who die  
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow  
In Flanders fields.  
  


—“In Flanders Fields,” John McCrae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


	14. APPENDIX (Art, Selected Poetry, Suggested Documentaries)

ART

  


My artist for this event was [requiemofkings](https://requiemofkings.tumblr.com).

(EDIT: The lovely freshsunberries on tumblr did some UNPROMPTED art for this fic!!!! You can find it [HERE](https://freshsunberries.tumblr.com/post/614937253087772672/to-say-i-liked-whatmack-s-flanders-fields-in-an).)

  
  
SELECTED POETRY  
  
A wealth of poetry came out of the Great War. I’ve drawn mainly from male soldiers writing in English, because that’s what Andrew is. There are many more points of view and wordcraft than this short list would suggest.

“[The Song of the Mud](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57329/at-the-somme-the-song-of-the-mud)” by Mary Borden

“[August 1914](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57362/august-1914-56d23ace66a9d)” by May Wedderburn Cannan  
  
“[Two Fusiliers](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57344/two-fusiliers)” by Robert Graves

“[Photographs](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57249/photographs-56d23a902517)” by Ivor Gurney

“[The Infantry”](https://www.reddit.com/r/TheWayWeWere/comments/6z04bz/poor_bloody_infantry_this_is_the_song_of_the_p_b/) by McA 

“[In Flanders Fields](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47380/in-flanders-fields)” by John McCrae

“[Dulce et Decorum Est](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46560/dulce-et-decorum-est)” by Wilfred Owen

“[Strange Meeting](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47395/strange-meeting)” by Wilfred Owen

“[Break of Day in the Trenches](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/13535/break-of-day-in-the-trenches)” by Issac Rosenberg 

“[A.E.F.](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57321/a-e-f)” by Carl Sandburg

“[Grass](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45034/grass-56d2245e2201c)” by Carl Sandburg

“[Repression of War Experience](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57267/repression-of-war-experience)” by Siegfried Sassoon   
  


Found written on the wall of a tunnel dug under La Boisselle, signature illegible:

> If in this place you are detained  
> Don’t look around you all in vain  
> But cast your net and you will find  
> That every cloud is silver lined  
>   
> Still.

  
SUGGESTED DOCUMENTARIES (AND SUNDRY)  
  
I drew upon many sources when writing this fic. Listed below are a few videos that I found particularly interesting should the reader wish to learn more.  
  
[ _Life In The Trenches_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1XO0YOCwRn0)

[ _Digging Up The Trenches_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=STlK-7YnVMY)

[_The Somme: Secret Tunnel Wars_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kQZJS4YqSEk)

[ _In The Know: Military Medicine in World War I_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OIv1IWeEhjM&t=183s)

[_The Red Baron: The Most Feared Fighter Pilot Of WWI_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=onxV-p6_Gt4&list=PLtKxZYvcM56TTcKgYxkvM6N0RsqfL8uFB)

[_Getting Dressed in WW1 – British Soldier_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u9JDqWC8gXc)

[_Getting Dressed in WW1 – VAD Nurse_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QZOaMbTRxWY)

Something I didn't get the chance to talk about was plastic surgery, which sprung out of treatment for the disfiguring face wounds sustained in the war (it's the reason I left Matt's dad alive).  
  
The "father of modern plastic surgery," Dr. Harold Gilles, was a New Zealander who studied at Cambridge University and joined the Royal Army Medial Corps at the outbreak of the war. Reconstructive facial surgery, especially of the jaw, existed, but not on any large or organized scale. Gillies changed that.  
  
Gilles and his team of specialists invented new techniques and applied them, changing the lives of thousands of veterans. Though the results seem rough by today's standards, many of the soldiers who underwent Gilles' reconstructive surgeries had been left in the lurch by pre-existing medical treatment, and Gilles' work allowed them to regain both function and a degree of cosmetic repair that had previously been impossible.

Gilles continued his research into plastic surgery after the war. In 1946, he performed the first GRS phalloplasty on patient Michael Dillon.  
  
(The first GRS vaginoplasty I've found record for was in 1931, in Berlin. Dr. Erwin Gohrbandt performed the surgery upon patient Dora Richter.)  
  
  



End file.
